<^v 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 


THE  SHADOW  OF 
THE    EAST 

BY  E.  M.  HULL 


AUTHOR  OF 
"The  Sheik" 


A.  L.  BURT  COMPANY 
Publishers  New  York 

Published  by  arrangement  with  Small,  Maynard  &  Company 
Printed  in  U.  S.  A. 


COPTBIQHT,    1921 

BT  SMALL,  MAYNARD  &   COMPANY 

(INCOEPOBATBD) 


JPrinted  in  the  Gmted  States  of  Amenca 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 


CHAPTER    I 

American  yacht  lying  off  the  harbour  at  Yoko- 
•••  hama  was  brilliantly  lit  from  stem  to  stern. 
Between  it  and  the  shore  the  reflection  of  the  full  moon 
glittered  on  the  water  up  to  the  steps  of  the  big  black 
landing-stage.  The  glamour  of  the  eastern  night  and  the 
moonlight  combined  to  lend  enchantment  to  a  scene  that 
by  day  is  blatant  and  tawdry,  and  the  countless  coloured 
lamps  twinkling  along  the  sea  wall  and  dotted  over  the 
Bluff  transformed  the  Japanese  town  into  fairyland. 

The  night  was  warm  and  still,  and  there  was  barely  a 
ripple  on  the  water.  The  Bay  was  full  of  craft  —  liners, 
tramps,  and  yachts  swinging  slowly  with  the  tide,  and 
hurrying  to  and  fro  sampans  and  electric  launches  jostled 
indiscriminately. 

On  board  the  yacht  three  men  were  lying  in  long  chairs 
on  the  deck.  Jermyn  Atherton,  the  millionaire  owner,  a 
tall  thin  American  whose  keen,  clever  face  looked  singu- 
larly youthful  under  a  thick  crop  of  iron-grey  hair,  sat 
forward  in  his  chair  to  light  a  fresh  cigar,  and  then  turned 
to  the  man  on  his  right.  "I  guess  I've  had  every  official 
in  Japan  hunting  for  you  these  last  two  days,  Barry.  If 
I  hadn't  had  your  wire  from  Tokio  this  morning  I  should 
have  gone  to  our  Consul  and  churned  up  the  whole 
Japanese  Secret  Service  and  made  an  international  affair 
of  it,"  he  laughed.  "Where  in  all  creation  were  you? 

5 


6  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

I  should  hardly  have  thought  it  possible  to  get  out  of 
touch  in  this  little  old  island.  The  authorities,  too,  knew 
all  about  you,  and  reckoned  they  could  lay  their  hands 
on  you  in  twelve  hours.  I  rattled  them  up  some,"  he 
added,  with  evident  satisfaction. 

The  Englishman  smiled. 

"You  seem  to  have  done,"  he  said  dryly.  "When  I 
got  into  Tokio  this  morning  I  was  fallen  on  by  a 
hysterical  inspector  of  police  who  implored  me  with  tears 
to  communicate  immediately  with  an  infuriated  American 
who  was  raising  Cain  in  Yokohama  over  my  dis- 
appearance. As  a  matter  of  fact  I  was  in  a  little  village 
twenty  miles  inland  from  Tokio  —  quite  off  the  beaten 
track.  There's  an  old  Shinto  temple  there  that  I  have 
been  wanting  to  sketch  for  a  long  time." 

"Atherton's  luck!"  commented  the  American  com- 
placently. "It  generally  holds  good.  I  couldn't  leave 
Japan  without  seeing  you,  and  I  must  sail  tonight. " 

"What's  your  hurry  —  Wall  Street  going  to  the  dogs 
without  you?" 

"No.  I've  cut  out  from  Wall  Street.  I've  made  all 
the  money  I  want,  and  I'm  only  concerned  with  spending 
it  now.  No,  the  fact  is  I  —  er  —  I  left  home  rather 
suddenly. " 

A  soft  chuckle  came  from  the  recumbent  occupant  of 
the  third  chair,  but  Atherton  ignored  it  and  hurried  on, 
twirling  rapidly,  as  he  spoke,  a  single  eyeglass  attached  to 
a  thin  black  cord. 

"Ever  since  Nina  and  I  were  married  last  year  we've 
been  going  the  devil  of  a  pace.  We  had  to  entertain 
every  one  who  had  entertained  us  —  and  a  few  more  folk 
besides.  There  was  something  doing  all  day  and  every 
day  until  at  last  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  never  saw  my  wife 
except  at  the  other  end  of  a  dining  table  with  a  crowd  of 
silly  fools  in  between  us.  I  reckoned  I'd  just  about  had 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  7 

.enough  of  it.  Came  on  me  just  like  a  flash  sitting  in  my 
office  down  town  one  morning,  so  I  buzzed  home  right 
away  in  the  auto  and  told  her  I  was  sick  of  the  whole 
thing  and  that  I  wanted  her  to  come  away  with  me  and 
see  what  real  life  was  like  —  out  West  or  anywhere  else 
on  earth  away  from  that  durned  society  crowd.  I'll 
admit  I  lost  my  temper  and  did  some  shouting.  Nina 
couldn't  see  it  from  my  point  of  view. 

"My  God,  Jermyn!  I  should  think  not,"  drawled  a 
sleepy  voice  from  the  third  chair,  and  a  short,  immensely 
stout  man  struggled  up  into  a  sitting  position,  mopping 
his  forehead  vigorously.  "You've  the  instincts  of  a 
Turk  rather  than  of  an  enlightened  American  citizen. 
You've  not  seen  my  sister-in-law  yet,  Mr.  Craven,"  he 
turned  to  the  Englishman.  "She's  a  peach!  Smartest 
little  girl  in  N'York.  Leader  of  society  —  dollars  no  ob- 
ject —  small  wonder  she  didn't  fall  in  with  Jermyn's  pre- 
historic notions.  You're  a  cave  man,  elder  brother  —  I 
put  my  money  on  Nina  every  time.  Hell!  isn't  it  hot?" 
He  sank  down  again  full  length,  flapping  his  handker- 
chief feebly  at  a  persistent  mosquito. 

"We  argued  for  a  week,"  resumed  Jermyn  Atherton 
when  his  brother's  sleepy  drawl  subsided,  "and  didn't 
seem  to  get  any  further  on.  At  last  I  lost  my  temper 
completely  and  decided  to  clear  out  alone  if  Nina 
wouldn't  come  with  me.  Leslie  was  not  doing  anything 
at  the  time,  so  I  persuaded  him  to  come  along  too." 

Leslie  Atherton  sat  up  again  with  a  jerk. 

"Persuaded!"  he  exploded,  "A  dam'  queer  notion 
of  persuasion.  Shanghaied,  I  call  it.  Ran  me  to  earth 
at  the  club  at  five  o'clock,  and  we  sailed  at  eight. 
If  my  man  hadn't  been  fond  of  the  sea  and  keen  on 
the  trip  himself,  I  should  have  left  America  for  a  cruise 
round  the  world  in  the  clothes  I  stood  up  in  —  and 
Jermyn's  duds  would  be  about  as  useful  to  me  as  a  suit 


8  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

of  reach-me-downs  off  the  line.  Persuasion?  Shucks! 
Jermyn  thought  it  was  kind  of  funny  to  start  right  off 
on  an  ocean  trip  at  a  moment's  notice  and  show  Nina 
he  didn't  care  a  durn.  Crazy  notion  of  humour."  He 
lay  back  languidly  and  covered  his  face  with  a  large  silk 
handkerchief. 

Barry  Craven  turned  toward  his  host  with  amused 
curiosity  in  his  grey  eyes. 

"Well?"  he  asked  at  length. 

Atherton  returned  his  look  with  a  slightly  embarrassed 
smile. 

"It  hasn't  been  so  blamed  funny  after  all,"  he  said 
quietly.  "A  Chinese  coffin-ship  from  'Frisco  would  be 
hilarious  compared  with  this  trip,"  rapped  a  sarcastic 
voice  from  behind  the  silk  handkerchief. 

"I've  felt  a  brute  ever  since  we  lost  sight  of  Sandy 
Hook,"  continued  Atherton,  looking  away  toward  the 
twinkling  lights  on  shore,  "and  as  soon  as  we  put  in 
here  I  couldn't  stand  it  any  longer,  so  I  cabled  to  Nina 
that  I  was  returning  at  once.  I'm  quite  prepared  to  eat 
humble  pie  and  all  the  rest  of  it  —  in  fact  I  shall  relish 
it, "  with  a  sudden  shy  laugh. 

His  brother  heaved  his  vast  bulk  clear  of  the  deck 
chair  with  a  mighty  effort. 

"Humble  pie!  Huh!"  he  snorted  contemptuously, 
"She'll  kill  the  fatted  calf  and  put  a  halo  of  glory  round 
your  head  and  invite  in  all  the  neighbours  'for  this  my 
prodigal  husbaDd  has  returned  to  me!'"  He  ducked 
with  surprising  swiftness  to  avoid  a  book  that  Atherton 
hurled  at  his  head  and  shook  a  chubby  forefinger  at  him 
reprovingly. 

"Don't  assault  the  only  guide,  philosopher  and  friend 
you've  got  who  has  the  courage  to  tell  you  a  few  home 
truths.  Say,  Jermyn,  d'y'know  why  I  finally  consented 
to  come  on  this  crazy  cruise,  anyway?  Because  Nina 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  9 

got  me  on  the  'phone  while  you  were  hammering  away 
at  me  at  the  club  and  ordered  me  to  go  right  along  with 
you  and  see  you  didn't  do  any  dam'  foolishness.  Oh, 
she's  got  me  to  heel  right  enough.  Well!  I  guess  I'll 
turn  in  and  get  to  sleep  before  those  fool  engines  start 
chump-chumping  under  my  pillow.  You  boys  will  want 
a  pow-wow  to  your  two  selves;  there  are  times  when 
three  is  a  crowd.  Good-bye,  Mr.  Craven,  pleased  to  have 
met  you.  Hope  to  see  you  in  the  Adirondacks  next 
summer  —  a  bit  more  crowded  than  the  Rockies,  which 
are  Jermyn's  Mecca,  but  more  home  comforts  —  appeal 
to  a  man  of  my  build."  He  slipped  away  with  the 
noiseless  tread  that  is  habitual  to  heavy  men." 

Jermyn  Atherton  looked  after  his  retreating  figure  and 
laughed  uproariously. 

"Isn't  he  the  darndest?  A  clam  is  communicative 
compared  with  Leslie.  Fancy  him  having  that  card  up 
his  sleeve  all  the  while.  Nina's  had  the  bulge  on  me 
right  straight  along. " 

He  pushed  a  cigar-box  across  the  wicker  table  between 
them. 

"No,  thanks,"  said  Craven,  taking  a  case  from  his 
pocket.  "I'll  have  a  cigarette,  if  you  don't  mind." 

The  American  settled  himself  in  his  chair,  his  hands 
clasped  behind  his  head,  staring  at  the  harbour  lights, 
his  thoughts  very  obviously  some  thousands  of  miles 
away.  Craven  watched  him  speculatively.  Atherton 
the  big  game-hunter,  Atherton  the  mine-owner,  he  knew 
perfectly  —  but  Atherton  the  New  York  broker,  Atherton 
married,  he  was  unacquainted  with  and  he  was  trying 
to  adjust  and  consolidate  the  two  personalities. 

It  was  the  same  Atherton  —  but  more  human,  more 
humble,  if  such  a  word  could  be  applied  to  an  American 
millionaire.  He  felt  a  sudden  curiosity  to  see  the  woman 
who  had  brought  that  new  look  into  his  old  friend's, 


10  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

keen  blue  eyes.  He  was  conscious  of  an  odd  feeling  of 
envy.  Atherton  became  aware  at  last  of  his  attentive 
gaze  and  grinned  sheepishly. 

"Must  seem  a  bit  of  a  fool  to  you,  old  man,  but  I 
feel  like  a  boy  going  home  for  the  holidays  and  that's 
the  truth.  But  I've  been  yapping  about  my  own  affair 
all  evening.  What  about  you  —  staying  on  in  Japan? 
Been  here  quite  a  while  now,  haven't  you?" 

"Just  over  a  year." 

"Like  it?" 

"Yes,  Japan  has  got  into  my  bones." 

"Lazy  kind  of  life,  isn't  it?" 

There  was  no  apparent  change  in  Atherton 's  drawl, 
but  Craven  turned  his  head  quickly  and  looked  at  him 
before  answering. 

"I'm  a  lazy  kind  of  fellow,"  he  replied  quietly. 

"You  weren't  lazy  in  the  Rockies,"  said  Atherton 
sharply. 

"Oh,  yes  I  was.   There  are  grades  of  laziness." 

Atherton  flung  the  stub  of  his  cigar  overboard  and 
selecting  a  fresh  one,  cut  the  end  off  carefully. 

"Still  got  that  Jap  boy  who  was  with  you  in 
America?" 

"Yoshio?  Yes.  I  picked  him  up  in  San  Francisco 
ten  years  ago.  He'll  never  leave  me  now." 

"Saved  his  life,  didn't  you?  He  spun  me  a  great 
yarn  one  day  in  camp. " 

Craven  laughed  and  shrugged.  "Yoshio  has  an 
Oriental  imagination  and  quite  a  flair  for  romance.  I 
did  pull  him  out  of  a  hole  in  'Frisco  but  he  was  putting 
up  a  very  tidy  little  show  on  his  own  account.  He's  the 
toughest  little  beggar  I've  ever  come  across  and  doesn't 
know  the  meaning  of  fear.  If  I'm  ever  in  a  big  scrap 
I  hope  I  shall  have  Yoshio  behind  me." 
i  "You  seem  to  be  pretty  well  known  over  yonder,'* 


11 


said  Atherton  with  a  vague  movement  of  his  head  toward 
the  shore. 

"It  is  not  a  big  town  and  the  foreign  population  is 
not  vast.  Besides,  there  are  traditions.  I  am  the  second 
Barry  Craven  to  live  in  Yokohama  —  my  father  lived 
several  years  and  finally  died  here.  He  was  obsessed 
with  Japan." 

"And  with  the  Japanese?" 

"And  with  the  Japanese." 

Atherton  frowned  at  the  glowing  end  of  his  cigar. 

"Nina  and  I  ran  down  to  see  Craven  Towers  when 
we  were  on  our  wedding  trip  in  England  last  year,"  he 
said  at  length  with  seeming  irrelevance.  "Your  agent, 
Mr.  Peters,  ran  us  round. " 

"Good  old  Peters,"  murmured  Craven  lazily.  "The 
place  would  have  gone  to  the  bow-wows  long  ago  if  it 
hadn't  been  for  him.  He  adored  my  mother  and  has 
the  worst  possible  opinion  of  me.  But  he's  a  loyal  old 
bird,  he  probably  endowed  me  with  all  the  virtues  for 
your  benefit." 

But  Atherton  ignored  the  comment.  He  polished  his 
eyeglass  vigorously  and  screwed  it  firmly  into  position. 

"If  I  was  an  Englishman  with  a  place  like  Craven 
Towers  that  had  been  in  my  family  for  generations,"  he 
said  soberly,  "I  should  go  home  and  marry  a  nice  girl 
and  settle  down  on  my  estate. " 

"That's  precisely  Peters'  opinion,"  replied  Craven 
promptly  with  a  good-tempered  laugh.  "I  get  reams 
from  him  to  that  effect  nearly  every  mail  —  with  detailed 
descriptions  of  all  the  eligible  debutantes  whom  he  thinks 
suitable.  I  often  wonder  whether  he  runs  the  estate  on 
the  same  lines  and  keeps  a  matrimonial  agency  for  the 
tenants. " 

Atherton  laughed  with  him  but  persisted. 

"If  your  own  countrywomen  don't  appeal  to  you. 


12  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

take  a  run  out  to  the  States  and  see  what  we  can  do 
for  you. " 

The  laugh  died  out  of  Craven's  eyes  and  he  moved 
restlessly  in  his  chair. 

"It's  no  good,  Jermyn.  I'm  not  a  marrying  man," 
he  said  shortly. 

Atherton  smiled  grimly  at  the  recollection  of  a  similar 
remark  emphatically  uttered  by  himself  at  their  last 
meeting. 

For  a  time  neither  spoke.  Each  was  conscious  of  a 
vague  difference  in  the  other,  developed  during  the  years 
that  had  elapsed  since  their  last  meeting  —  an  intangible 
barrier  checking  the  open  confidence  of  earlier  days. 

It  was  growing  late.  The  sampans  had  nearly  all 
disappeared  and  only  an  occasional  launch  skimmed 
across  the  harbour. 

A  neighbouring  yacht's  band  that  had  been  silent  for 
the  last  hour  began  to  play  again  —  appropriately  to  the 
vicinity  —  Puccini's  well-known  opera.  The  strains  came 
subdued  but  clear  across  the  water  on  the  scent-laden 
.air.  Craven  sat  forward  in  his  chair,  his  heels  on  the 
ground,  his  hands  loosely  clasped  between  his  knees, 
whistling  softly  the  Consul's  solo  in  the  first  act.  From 
behind  a  cloud  of  cigar  smoke  Atherton  watched  him 
keenly,  and  as  he  watched  he  was  thinking  rapidly.  He 
was  used  to  making  decisions  quickly  —  he  was  accus- 
tomed to  accepting  risks  at  which  others  shied,  but  the 
risk  he  was  now  contemplating  meant  the  taking  of  an 
unwarranted  liberty  that  might  be  resented  and  might 
result  in  the  loss  of  a  friendship  that  he  valued.  But  he 
was  going  to  take  the  risk  —  as  he  had  taken  many 
another  —  he  had  known  that  from  the  first.  He  screwed 
his  eyeglass  firmer  into  his  eye,  a  characteristic  gesture 
well-known  on  the  New  York  stock  market. 

"Ever  see  Madame  Butterfly?"  he  asked  abruptly. 

"Yes." 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  13 

•    Atherton  blew  another  big  cloud  of  smoke. 

"Damn  fool,  Pinkerton,"  he  said  gruffly,  "Never 
could  see  the  attraction  myself  —  dancing  girls  —  almond 
eyes  —  and  all  that  sort  of  thing. " 

Craven  made  no  answer  but  his  whistling  stopped 
suddenly  and  the  knuckles  of  his  clasped  hands  whitened. 
Atherton  looked  away  quickly  and  his  eyeglass  fell  with 
a  little  tinkle  against  a  waistcoat  button.  There  was 
another  long  pause.  Finally  the  music  died  away  and 
the  stillness  was  broken  only  by  the  soft  slap-slap  of  the 
water  against  the  ship's  side. 

Atherton  scowled  at  his  immaculate  deck  shoes  and 
then  seized  his  eyeglass  again  decisively. 

"Say,  Barry,  you  saved  my  life  in  the  Rockies  that 
trip  and  I  guess  a  fellow  whose  life  you've  saved  has  a 
pull  on  you  no  one  else  has.  Anyhow  I'll  chance  it, 
and  if  I'm  a  damned  interfering  meddler  it's  up  to  you 
to  say  so  and  I'll  apologise  —  handsomely.  Are  you  in, 
a  hole?" 

Craven  got  up,  walked  away  to  the  side  of  the  yacht 
and  leaning  on  the  rail  stared  down  into  the  water.  A 
solitary  sampan  was  passing  the  broad  streak  of  moon- 
light and  he  watched  it  intently  until  it  passed  and 
merged  into  the  shadows  beyond. 

"  I've  been  the  usual  fool, "  he  said  at  last  quietly. 

MOh,  hell!"  came  softly  from  behind  him.  "Chuck 
it,  Barry.  Clear  out  right  now  —  with  us.  I'll  put  off 
sailing  until  tomorrow." 

"I  — can't." 

Atherton  rose  and  joined  him,  and  for  a  moment  his 
hand  rested  on  the  younger  man's  shoulder. 

"I'm  sorry  —  dashed  sorry,"  he  murmured.  "Gee!" 
he  added  with  a  half  shy,  half  humorous  glance,  wiping 
his  forehead  frankly,  "I'd  rather  face  a  grizzly  than  do 
that  again.  Leslie  keeps  telling  me  that  my  habit  of 


14  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE   EAST 

butting  in  will  land  me  in  the  family  vault  before  my 
time." 

Craven  smiled  wryly. 

"It's  all  right.  I'm  grateful  —  really.  But  I  must 
hoe  my  own  row." 

The  American  swung  irresolutely  on  his  heels. 

"That's  so,  that's  so,"  he  agreed  reluctantly.  "Oh 
damn  it  all,"  he  burst  out,  "have  a  drink!"  and  going 
back  to  the  table  he  pounded  in  the  stopper  of  a  soda- 
water-bottle  savagely. 

Craven  laughed  constrainedly  as  he  tilted  the  whisky 
into  a  glass. 

"Universal  panacea,"  he  said  a  little  bitterly,  "but 
it's  not  my  method  of  oblivion. " 

He  put  the  peg  tumbler  down  with  a  smothered  sigh. 

"I  must  be  off,  Jermyn.  It's  time  you  were  getting 
under  way.  It's  been  like  the  old  days  to  have  had  a 
yarn  with  you  again.  Good  luck  and  a  quick  run  home 
—  you  lucky  devil. " 

Atherton  walked  with  him  to  the  head  of  the  gangway 
and  watched  him  into  the  launch. 

"We  shall  count  on  you  for  the  Adirondacks  in  the 
summer,"  he  called  out  cheerily,  leaning  far  over  the 
rail. 

Craven  looked  up  with  a  smile  and  waved  his  hand, 
but  did  not  answer  and  the  motor  boat  shot  away  toward 
the  shore. 

He  landed  on  the  big  pier  and  lingered  for  a  moment 
to  watch  the  launch  speeding  back  to  the  yacht.  Then 
he  walked  slowly  down  the  length  of  the  stage  and  at 
the  entrance  found  his  rickshaw  waiting.  The  two  men 
who  were  squatting  on  the  ground  leaped  up  at  his 
approach  and  one  hurriedly  lit  a  great  dragon-painted 
paper  lantern  while  the  other  held  out  a  light  dustcoat. 
Craven  tossed  it  into  the  rickshaw  and  silently  pointing 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  15 

toward  the  north,  climbed  in.  He  leaned  -back  and  lit 
a  cigarette.  The  men  sprang  away  in  a  quick  dog-trot 
along  the  Bund,  and  then  started  to  climb  the  hillside 
at  the  back  of  the  town.  They  wound  slowly  up  the 
narrow  tortuous  roads,  past  numberless  villas,  hung  with 
lights,  from  which  voices  floated  out  into  the  quiet 
air. 

The  moon  was  brilliant  and  the  night  wonderfully  light, 
but  Craven  paid  no  attention  to  the  beauty  of  the  scene 
or  to  the  gaily  lit  villas.  Atherton's  invitation  had  been 
curiously  hard  to  decline  and  even  now  an  almost  over- 
powering desire  came  over  him  to  bid  his  men  retrace 
their  steps  to  the  harbour.  Then  hard  on  the  heels  of 
that  desire  came  thoughts  that  softened  the  hard  lines 
that  had  gathered  about  his  mouth.  He  pitched  his 
cigarette  away  as  if  with  it  he  threw  from  him  an  actual 
temptation,  and  resolutely  put  out  of  his  mind  Atherton 
and  the  suggestion  of  flight. 

Still  climbing  upward  the  rickshaw  passed  the  last  of 
the  outlying  European  villas  and  turned  down  a  side 
road  where  there  were  no  houses.  For  a  couple  of  miles 
the  men  raced  along  a  level  track  cut  on  the  side  of  a 
hill  that  rose  steeply  on  the  one  hand  and  on  the  other 
fell  away  precipitously  down  to  the  sea  until  they  halted 
with  a  sudden  jerk  beside  a  wooden  gateway  with  a 
creeper-covered  roof  on  either  side  of  which  two  matsu 
trees  stood  like  tall  sentinels. 

Waiting  by  the  open  gate  was  a  short,  powerful  looking 
Japanese  dressed  in  European  clothes.  He  came  forward 
as  Craven  alighted  and  gathering  up  the  coat  and  hat 
from  the  floor  of  the  rickshaw,  dismissed  the  Japanese 
who  vanished  further  along  the  road  into  the  shadows. 
Then  he  turned  and  waited  for  his  master  to  precede 
him  through  the  gateway,  but  Craven  signed  to  him  to 
go  on,  and  as  the  man  disappeared  up  the  garden  path 


16  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

he  crossed  the  road  and  standing  on  the  edge  of  the  cliff 
looked  down  across  the  harbour.  The  American  yacht 
was  the  biggest  craft  of  her  kind  in  the  roads  and  easily 
discernible  in  the  moonlight.  The  brilliant  deck  illu- 
mination had  been  shut  off  and  only  a  few  lights  showed. 
He  gave  a  quick  sigh.  Atherton's  coming  had  been  like 
a  bar  drawn  suddenly  across  the  stream  down  which  he 
was  drifting.  If  Jermyn  had  only  come  last  year!  The 
envy  he  had  felt  earlier  in  the  evening  increased.  He 
thought  of  the  look  he  had  seen  in  Atherton's  eyes  and 
the  intonation  of  his  voice  when  the  American  spoke  of 
the  wife  to  whom  he  was  returning.  What  did  love 
like  that  mean  to  a  man?  What  factor  in  Atherton's 
strenuous  and  adventurous  life  had  affected  him  as  this 
had  done?  What  were  the  ethics  of  a  love  that  rose 
purely  above  physical  attraction  —  environment  —  tem- 
perament; a  love  that  grew  and  strengthened  and  ab- 
sorbed until  it  ceased  to  be  a  part  of  life  and  became 
life  itself  —  the  main  issue,  the  fundamental  essence? 

And  as  Craven  watched  he  saw  the  yacht  steam  slowly 
down  the  bay.  He  drew  a  deep  breath. 

"You  lucky,  lucky  devil,"  he  whispered  again  and 
swung  on  his  heel.  He  paused  for  a  moment  just  within 
the  gateway  where  on  the  only  level  part  of  the  garden 
lay  a  miniature  lake,  hedged  round  with  bamboo, 
clumps  of  oleander,  fed  by  a  little  twisting  stream  that 
came  tumbling  and  splashing  down  the  hillside  in  a  series 
of  tiny  waterfalls,  its  banks  fringed  with  azalea  bushes 
and  slender  cherry  trees.  Then  he  walked  slowly  along 
the  path  that  led  upward,  winding  to  and  fro  through 
clusters  of  pines  and  cedars  and  over  mossy  slopes  to  the 
little  house  which  stood  in  a  clearing  at  the  top  of  the 
garden  surrounded  by  fir  trees  and  backed  by  a  high 
creeper-clad  palisade. 

From  the  wide  verandah,  built  out  on  piles  over  the 


„  THE  SHADOW  OP  THE  EAST  17 

terrace,  there  was  an  uninterrupted  view  of  the  harbour. 
He  climbed  the  four  wooden  stairs  and  on  the  top  step 
turned  and  looked  again  down  on  to  the  bay.  The  yacht 
was  now  invisible,  but  in  his  mind  he  followed  her  slip- 
ping down  toward  the  open  sea.  And  Atherton  —  what 
were  his  thoughts  while  pacing  the  broad  deck  or  lying 
in  his  cabin  listening  to  the  screw  whose  every  revolution 
was  taking  him  nearer  the  centre  of  his  earthly  happi- 
ness? Were  they  anything  like  his  own,  he  wondered, 
as  he  stood  there  bareheaded  in  the  moonlight,  looking 
strangely  big  and  incongruous  on  the  balcony  of  the 
little  fairy  like  doll's  house? 

He  shrugged  impatiently.  The  comparison  was  an 
insult,  he  thought  bitterly.  Again  he  stared  out  to  sea, 
straining  his  eyes,  trying  vainly  to  pick  up  the  yacht's 
lights  far  down  the  bay.  It  was  very  still,  a  tiny  breeze 
whispered  in  the  pines  and  drifted  across  his  face  the 
sweet  perfume  of  a  flowering  shrub.  A  cicada  chirped 
in  the  grass  at  his  feet. 

Then  behind  him  came  a  faint  rustle  of  silk.  He 
heard  the  soft  sibilant  sound  of  a  breath  drawn  quickly 
in. 

"Will  my  lord  honourably  be  pleased  to  enter?"  the 
voice  was  very  low  and  sweet  and  the  English  very  slow 
and  careful. 

Craven  did  not  move. 

"Try  again,  O  Hara  San." 

A  low  bubble  of  girlish  laughter  rippled  out. 

"Please  to  come  in,  Bar-ree. " 

He  turned  slowly,  looking  bigger  than  ever  by  contrast 
with  the  slender  little  Japanese  girl  who  faced  him.  She 
was  barely  seventeen,  dainty  and  fragile  as  ^  ^/urcelain 
figure,  wholly  in  keeping  with  her  exquisite  setting  and 
yet  the  flush  on  her  cheeks  —  free  from  the  thick  dis- 
figuring white  paste  used  by  the  women  of  her  country 


18  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

• —  and  the  vivid  animation  of  her  face  were  oddly  oc- 
cidental, and  the  eyes  raised  so  eagerly  to  Craven's  were 
as  grey  as  his  own. 

He  held  out  his  arms  and  she  fluttered  into  them  with 
a  little  breathless  murmur,  clinging  to  him  passionately. 

"Little  O  Hara  San,"  he  said  gently  as  she  pressed 
closer  to  him.  He  tilted  her  head,  stooping  to  kiss  the 
tiny  mouth  that  trembled  at  the  touch  of  his  lips.  She 
closed  her  eyes  and  he  felt  an  almost  convulsive  shudder 
shake  her. 

"Have  you  missed  me,  O  Hara  San?'* 

"It  is  a  thousand  moons  since  you  are  gone,"  she 
whispered  unsteadily. 

"Are  you  glad  to  see  me?" 

Her  grey  eyes  opened  suddenly  with  a  look  of  utter 
content  and  happiness. 

"You  know,  Bar-ree.   Oh,  Bar-reel" 

His  face  clouded,  the  teasing  word  that  rose  to  his 
lips  died  away  unspoken  and  he  pressed  her  head  against 
him  almost  roughly  to  hide  the  look  of  trusting  devotion 
that  suddenly  hurt  him.  For  a  few  moments  she  lay 
still,  then  slipped  free  of  his  arms  and  stood  before  him, 
swaying  slightly  from  side  to  side,  her  hands  busily  pat- 
ting her  hair  into  order  and  smiling  up  at  him  happily. 

"Being  very  rude.  Forgetting  honourable  hos- 
pitality. You  please  forgive?" 

She  backed  a  few  steps  toward  the  doorway  and  her 
pliant  figure  bent  for  an  instant  in  the  prescribed  form 
of  Japanese  courtesy  and  salutation.  Then  she  clasped 
both  hands  together  with  a  little  cry  of  dismay.  "Oh, 
so  sorree,"  she  murmured  in  contrition,  "forgot  honour- 
able  lord  forbidding  that. " 

"Your  honourable  lord  will  beat  you  with  a  very  big 
stick  if  you  forget  again,"  said  Craven  laughing  as  he 
followed  her  into  the  little  room.  O  Hara  San  pouted 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  19 

her  scarlet  lips  at  him  and  laughed  softly  as  she  subsided 
on  to  a  mat  on  the  floor  and  clapped  her  hands.  Craven 
sat  down  opposite  her  more  slowly.  In  spite  of  the 
months  he  had  spent  in  Japan  he  still  found  it  difficult 
to  adapt  his  long  legs  to  the  national  attitude. 

In  answer  to  the  summons  an  old  armah  brought  tea 
and  little  rice  cakes  which  O  Hara  San  dispensed  with 
great  dignity  and  seriousness.  She  drank  innumerable 
cupfuls  while  Craven  took  three  or  four  to  please  her 
and  then  lit  a  cigarette.  He  smoked  in  silence  watching 
the  dainty  little  kneeling  figure,  following  the  quick 
movements  of  her  hands  as  she  manipulated  the  fragile 
china  on  the  low  stool  before  her,  the  restraint  she  im- 
posed upon  herself  as  she  struggled  with  the  excited 
happiness  that  manifested  itself  in  the  rapid  heaving  of 
her  bosom,  and  the  transient  smile  on  her  lips,  and  a 
heavy  frown  gathered  on  his  face.  She  looked  up  sud- 
denly, the  tiny  cup  poised  in  her  hand  midway  to  her 
mouth. 

"You  happy  in  Tokio?" 

"Yes." 

It  was  not  the  answer  for  which  she  had  hoped  and 
her  eyes  dropped  at  the  curt  monosyllable.  She  put  the 
cup  back  on  the  tray  and  folded  her  hands  in  her  lap 
with  a  faint  little  sigh  of  disappointment,  her  head 
drooping  pensively.  Craven  knew  instinctively  that  he 
had  hurt  her  and  hated  himself.  It  was  like  striking  a 
child.  But  presently  she  looked  up  again  and  gazed  at 
him  soberly,  wrinkling  her  forehead  in  unconscious 
imitation  of  his. 

"O  Hara  San  very  bad  selfish  girl.  Hoping  you  very 
wnhappy  in  Tokio,"  she  said  contritely. 

He  laughed  at  the  naive  confession  and  the  gloom 
vanished  from  his  face  as  he  stood  up,  his  long  limbs 
cramped  with  the  uncongenial  attitude. 


20  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

"What  have  you  been  doing  while  I  was  away?"  he 
asked,  crossing  the  room  to  look  at  a  new  kakemono  on 
the  wall. 

She  flitted  away  silently  and  returned  in  a  few  mo- 
ments carrying  a  small  panel.  She  put  it  into  his  hands, 
drawing  near  to  him  within  the  arm  he  slipped  round 
her  and  slanted  her  head  against  him,  waiting  for  his 
criticism  with  the  innate  patience  of  her  race. 

Craven  looked  long  at  the  painting.  It  was  a  study 
of  a  solitary  fir  tree,  growing  at  the  edge  of  a  cliff  — 
wind-swept,  rugged.  The  high  precipice  on  which  it 
stood  was  only  suggested  and  far  below  there  was  a 
hint  of  boundless  ocean  —  foam-crested. 

It  was  the  tree  that  gripped  attention  —  a  lonely  out- 
post, clinging  doggedly  to  its  jutting  headland,  rearing 
its  head  proudly  in  its  isolation;  the  wind  seemed  to 
rustle  through  its  branches,  its  gnarled  trunk  showed 
rough  and  weather-beaten.  It  was  a  poem  of  loneliness 
and  strength. 

At  last  Craven  laid  it  down  carefully,  and  gathering 
up  the  slender  clasped  hands,  kissed  them  silently.  The 
mute  homage  was  more  to  her  than  words.  The  colour 
rushed  to  her  cheeks  and  her  eyes  devoured  his  face 
almost  hungrily. 

"You  like  it?"  she  whispered  wistfully. 

"Like  it?"  he  echoed,  "Gad!  little  girl,  it's  won- 
derful. It's  more  than  a  fir  tree- — it's  power,  tenacity, 
independence.  I  know  that  all  your  work  is  symbolical 
to  you.  What  does  the  tree  mean  —  Japan?  " 

She  turned  her  head  away,  the  flush  deepening  in  her 
cheeks,  her  fingers  gripping  his. 

"  It  means  —  more  to  me  than  Japan, "  she  murmured. 
"More  to  me  than  life  —  it  means  —  you,"  she  added 
almost  inaudibly. 

He  swept  her  up  into  his  arms  and  carrying  her  out 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  21 

on  to  the  verandah,  dropped  into  a  big  cane  chair  that 
was  a  concession  to  his  western  limbs. 

"You  make  a  god  of  me,  O  Hara  San,"  he  said  huskily. 

"You  are  my  god,"  she  answered  simply,  and  as  he 
expostulated  she  laid  her  soft  palm  over  his  mouth  and 
nestled  closer  into  his  arms. 

"I  talk  now,"  she  said  quaintly.  "I  have  much  to 
tell." 

But  the  promised  news  did  not  seem  forthcoming  for 
she  grew  silent  again,  lying  quietly  content,  rubbing  her 
head  caressingly  from  time  to  time  against  his  arm  and 
twisting  his  watch-chain  round  her  tiny  fingers. 

The  night  was  very  quiet.  No  sound  came  from  within 
the  house,  and  without  only  the  soft  wind  murmuring 
in  the  trees,  cicadas  chirping  unceasingly  and  the  little 
river  dashing  down  the  hillside,  splashing  noisily,  broke 
the  stillness.  Nature,  the  sleepless,  was  awake  making 
her  influence  felt  with  the  kindly  natural  sounds  that 
mitigate  the  awe  of  absolute  silence  —  sounds  that  har- 
monized with  the  peacefulness  of  the  little  garden.  To- 
night the  contrast  between  Yokohama,  with  its  pitiful 
western  vulgarity  obtruding  at  every  turn,  and  the  quiet 
beauty  of  his  surroundings  struck  Craven  even  more 
sharply  than  usual.  It  seemed  impossible  that  only  two 
miles  away  was  Theatre  Street  blazing  and  rioting  with 
all  its  tinsel  tawdriness,  flaring  lights  and  whining 
gramophones.  Here  was  another  world  —  and  here  he 
had  found  more  continuous  contentment  than  he  had 
known  in  the  last  ten  years.  The  garden  was  an  old 
one,  planned  by  a  master  hand.  By  day  it  was  lovely, 
i  but  by  night  it  took  on  a  weird  beauty  that  was  almost 
unreal.  The  light  of  the  moon  cast  strong  black 
shadows,  deep  and  impenetrable,  that  hovered  among 
the  trees  like  sinister  spirits  lurking  in  the  darkness. 


22  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

The  trees  themselves,  contorted  in  the  moonlight, 
assumed  strange  forms  —  vague  shapes  played  in  and  out 
among  them  —  the  sombre  bushes  seemed  alive  with 
peeping  faces.  It  was  the  Garden  of  Enchantment, 
peopled  with  a  thousand  djinns  and  demons  of  Old 
Japan.  The  atmosphere  was  mysterious,  the  ah*  was 
saturated  with  sweet  heavy  scents. 

Craven  was  a  passionate  lover  of  the  night.  The  dark- 
ness, the  silence,  the  mystery  of  it  appealed  to  him.  He 
was  familiar  with  its  every  phase  in  many  climates.  It 
enticed  him  for  long  solitary  rambles  in  all  the  countries 
he  had  visited  during  the  ten  years  of  his  wanderings. 
Nature,  always  fascinating,  was  then  to  him  doubly 
attractive,  doubly  alluring.  To  the  night  he  went  for 
sympathy.  To  the  night  he  went  for  inspiration.  It 
was  during  his  midnight  wanderings  that  he  seemed  to 
get  nearer  the  fundamental  root  of  things.  It  was  to 
the  night  he  turned  for  consolation  in  times  of  need.  It 
was  then  that  he  exorcised  the  demon  of  unrest  that 
entered  into  him  periodically.  All  his  life  the  charm  of 
the  night  had  called  to  him  and  all  his  life  he  had  re- 
sponded obediently.  As  a  tiny  boy  one  of  his  earliest 
recollections  was  of  slipping  out  of  bed  and,  evading 
nurses  and  servants,  stealing  out  into  the  park  at  Craven 
Towers  to  seek  the  healing  of  the  night  for  some  childish 
heartache.  He  had  crept  down  the  long  avenue  and 
climbing  the  iron  fence  had  perched  on  the  rail  and 
watched  the  deer  feeding  by  the  light  of  the  moon  until 
all  the  sorrow  had  been  chased  away  and  his  baby  heart 
was  singing  with  a  kind  of  delirious  happiness  that  he 
did  not  understand  and  that  gave  way  in  its  turn  to  a 
natural  childish  enjoyment  of  an  adventure  that  was 
palpably  forbidden.  He  had  slid  down  from  the  fence 
and  retraced  his  steps  up  the  avenue  until  he  came  to 
the  path  that  led  to  the  rose  garden  and  eventually  to 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  2S 

the  terrace  near  the  house.  He  had  trotted  along  on  his 
little  bare  feet,  shivering  now  and  then,  but  more  from 
excitement  than  from  cold,  until  he  had  come  to  the 
long  flight  of  stone  steps  that  led  to  the  terrace.  He 
had  laboriously  climbed  them  one  foot  at  a  time,  his 
toes  curling  at  the  contact  with  the  chill  stone,  and  at 
the  top  he  had  halted  suddenly,  holding  his  breath. 
Close  to  him  was  a  tall  indistinct  figure  wrapped  in  dark 
draperies.  For  a  moment  fear  gripped  him  and  then  an 
immense  curiosity  swamped  every  other  feeling  and  he 
moved  forward  cautiously.  The  tall  figure  had  turned 
suddenly  and  it  was  his  mother's  sad  girlish  face  that 
looked  down  at  him.  She  had  lifted  him  up  into  her 
arms,  wrapping  her  warm  cloak  round  his  slightly  clad 
little  body  — she  had  asked  no  questions  and  she  had  not 
scolded.  She  had  seemed  to  understand,  even  though 
he  gave  no  explanation,  and  it  was  the  beginning  of  a 
sympathy  between  them  that  had  developed  to  an  unus- 
ual degree  and  lasted  until  her  death,  ten  years  ago. 
She  had  hugged  him  tightly  and  he  had  always  remem- 
bered, without  fully  understanding  in  his  childhood,  the 
half  incredulous,  half  regretful  whisper  in  his  ear,  "Has 
it  come  to  you  so  soon,  little  son?" 

The  hereditary  instinct,  born  thus,  had  grown  with 
his  own  growth  from  boyhood  to  manhood  until  it  was 
an  integral  part  of  himself. 

And  the  lure  of  the  eastern  nights  —  more  marvellous 
and  compelling  even  than  in  colder  climates  —  had  become 
almost  an  obsession. 

Little  O  Hara  San,  firm  believer  in  all  devils,  djinns 
and  midnight  workers  of  mischief,  had  grown  accustomed 
to  the  eccentricities  of  the  man  who  was  her  whole  world. 
If  it  pleased  him  to  spend  long  hours  of  the  night  sit- 
ting on  the  verandah  when  ordinary  folk  were  sensibly 
•hut  up  in  their  houses  she  did  not  care  so  long  as  she 


«4  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

might  be  with  him.  No  demon  in  Japan  could  harm 
her  while  she  lay  securely  in  his  strong  arms.  And  if 
unpleasant  shadows  crept  uncomfortably  near  the  little 
house  she  resolutely  turned  her  head  and  hiding  her  face 
against  him  shut  out  all  disagreeable  sights  and  slept 
peacefully,  confident  in  his  ability  to  keep  far  from  her 
all  danger.  Her  love  was  boundless  and  her  trust  abso- 
lute. But  tonight  there  was  no  thought  of  sleep.  For 
three  long  weeks  she  had  not  seen  him  and  during 
that  time  for  her  the  sun  had  ceased  to  shine.  She  had 
counted  each  hour  until  his  return  and  she  could  not 
waste  the  precious  moments  now  that  he  had  really 
come.  The  djinns  and  devils  in  the  garden  might  pre- 
sent themselves  in  all  their  hideousness  if  it  so  pleased 
them  but  tonight  she  was  heedless  of  them.  She  had 
eyes  for  nothing  but  the  man  she  worshipped.  Even  in 
his  silent  moods  she  was  content.  It  was  enough  to  feel 
his  arms  about  her,  to  hear  his  heart  beating  rhyth- 
mically beneath  her  head  and,  lying  so,  to  look  up  and 
see  the  firm  curve  of  his  chin  and  the  slight  moustache 
golden  brown  against  his  tanned  cheek. 

She  stirred  slightly  in  his  arms  with  a  little  sigh  of 
happiness,  and  the  faint  movement  woke  him  from  his 
abstraction. 

"Sleepy?"  he  asked  gently. 

She  laughed  gaily  at  the  suggestion  and  sat  up  to 
show  how  wide  awake  she  was.  The  light  from  a  lantern 
fell  full  on  her  face  and  Craven  studied  it  with  an  inten- 
sity of  which  he  was  hardly  aware.  She  bore  his  scrutiny 
in  silence  for  a  few  moments  and  then  looked  away  with 
a  little  grimace. 

"Thinking  me  very  ugly?"  she  hazarded  tentatively. 

"No.  Very  pretty, "  he  replied  truthfully.  She  leaned 
forward  and  laid  her  cheek  for  a  second  against  his, 
then  cuddled  'down  into  his  arms  again  with  a  happy 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  25 

laugh.    He  lit  a  cigarette  and  tossed  the  match  over 
the  verandah  rail. 

"What  is  your  news,  O  Hara  San?" 

She  did  not  speak  for  a  moment,  and  when  she  did  it 
was  no  answer  to  his  question.  She  reached  up  her 
hands  and  drawing  his  head  down  toward  her,  looked 
earnestly  into  his  eyes. 

"You  loving  me?"  she  asked  a  little  tremulously. 

"You  know  I  love  you,"  he  answered  quietly. 

"Very  much?" 

"Very  much." 

Her  eyes  flickered  and  her  hands  released  their  hold. 

"Men  not  loving  like  women,"  she  murmured  at 
length  wistfully.  And  then  suddenly,  with  her  face 
hidden  against  him,  she  told  him  —  of  the  fulfilling  of  all 
her  hope,  the  supreme  desire  of  eastern  women,  pouring 
out  her  happiness  in  quick  passionate  sentences,  her 
body  shaking  with  emotion,  her  fingers  gripping  his 
convulsively. 

Craven  sat  aghast.  It  was  a  possibility  of  which  he 
had  always  been  aware  but  which  with  other  unpleasant 
contingencies  he  had  relegated  to  the  background  of  his 
mind.  He  had  put  it  from  him  and  had  drifted,  care- 
less and  indifferent.  And  now  the  shadowy  possibility 
had  become  a  definite  reality  and  he  was  faced  with  a 
problem  that  horrified  him.  His  cigarette,  neglected, 
burnt  down  until  it  reached  his  fingers  and  he  flung  it 
away  with  a  sharp  exclamation.  He  did  not  speak  and 
the  girl  lay  motionless,  chilled  with  his  silence,  her  hap- 
piness slowly  dying  within  her,  vaguely  conscious  of  a 
dim  fear  that  terrified  her.  Was  the  link  that  she  had 
craved  to  bind  them  closer  together  to  be  useless  after 
all?  Was  this  happiness  that  he  had  given  her,  the 
culminating  joy  of  all  the  goodness  and  kindness  that  he 
had  lavished  on  her,  no  happiness  to  him?  The  thought 


26  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

stabbed  poignantly.  She  choked  back  a  sob  and  raised 
her  head,  but  at  the  sight  of  his  face  the  question  she 
would  have  asked  froze  on  her  lips. 

"Bar-ree!  you  are  not  angry  with  me?"  she  whis- 
pered desperately. 

"How  could  I  be  angry  with  you?"  he  replied 
evasively.  She  shivered  and  clenched  her  teeth,  but  the 
question  she  feared  must  be  asked. 

"Are  you  not  glad?"  it  was  a  cry  of  entreaty.  He 
did  not  speak  and  with  a  low  moan  she  tried  to  free 
herself  from  him  but  she  was  powerless  in  his  hold,  and 
soon  she  ceased  to  struggle  and  lay  still,  sobbing  bitterly. 
He  drew  her  closer  into  his  arms  and  laid  his  cheek  on 
her  dark  hair,  seeking  for  words  of  comfort,  and  finding 
none.  She  had  read  the  dismay  in  his  face,  had  in  vain 
waited  for  him  to  speak  and  no  tardy  lie  would  convince 
her  now.  He  had  wounded  her  cruelly  and  he  could 
make  no  amends.  He  had  failed  her  at  the  one  moment 
when  she  had  most  need  of  him.  He  cursed  himself 
bitterly.  Gradually  her  sobs  subsided  and  her  hand 
slipped  into  his  clutching  it  tightly.  She  sat  up  at  last 
with  a  little  sigh,  pushing  the  heavy  hair  off  her  forehead 
wearily,  and  forcing  herself  to  meet  his  eyes  —  looked  at 
him  sorrowfully,  with  quivering  lips. 

"Please  forgive,  Bar-ree,"  she  whispered  humbly  and 
her  humility  hurt  him  more  even  than  her  distress. 

"There  is  nothing  to  forgive,  O  Hara  San,"  he  said 
awkwardly,  and  as  she  sought  to  go  this  time  he  did 
not  keep  her.  She  walked  to  the  edge  of  the  verandah 
and  stared  down  into  the  garden.  Problematical  ghosts 
and  demons  paled  to  insignificance  before  this  real 
trouble.  She  fought  with  herself  gallantly,  crushing 
down  her  sorrow  and  disappointment  and  striving  to 
regain  the  control  she  had  let  slip.  Her  feminine  code 
was  simple  —  complete  abnegation ;  and  self-restraint. 


THE   SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  27 

And  she  had  broken  down  under  the  first  trial!  He 
would  despise  her,  the  daughter  of  a  race  trained  from 
childhood  to  conceal  suffering  and  to  suppress  all  signs 
of  emotion.  He  would  never  understand  that  it  was 
the  alien  blood  that  ran  in  her  veins  and  the  contact  with 
himself  that  had  caused  her  to  abandon  the  stoicism  of 
her  people,  that  had  made  her  reveal  her  sorrow.  He 
had  laughed  at  her  undemonstrativeness,  demanding 
expressions  and  proofs  of  her  affection  that  were  wholly 
foreign  to  her  upbringing  until  her  Oriental  reserve  had 
slipped  from  her  whose  only  wish  was  to  please  him. 
She  had  adopted  his  manners,  she  had  made  his  ways 
her  ways,  forgetting  the  bar  that  separated  them.  But 
tonight  the  racial  difference  of  temperament  had  risen 
up  vividly  between  them.  Her  joy  was  not  his  joy. 
If  he  had  been  a  Japanese  he  would  have  understood. 
But  he  did  not  understand  and  she  must  hide  both  joy 
and  sorrow.  It  was  his  contentment  not  hers  that  mat- 
tered. All  through  these  last  months  of  wonderful  hap- 
piness there  had  lurked  deep  down  in  her  heart  a  fear 
that  it  would  not  last,  and  she  had  dreaded  lest  any 
unwitting  act  of  hers  might  hasten  the  catastrophe. 

She  glanced  back  furtively  over  her  shoulder.  Craven 
was  leaning  forward  in  the  cane  chair  with  his  head  in 
his  hands  and  she  looked  away  hastily,  blinded  with 
tears.  She  had  troubled  him  —  distressed  him.  She  had 
"made  a  scene"  —  the  phrase,  read  in  some  English 
book,  flashed  through  her  mind.  Englishmen  hated 
scenes.  She  gripped  herself  resolutely  and  when  he  left 
his  chair  and  joined  her  she  smiled  at  him  bravely. 

"See,  all  the  djinns  are  gone,  Bar-ree,"  she  said  with 
a  little  nervous  laugh. 

He  guessed  the  struggle  she  was  making  and  chimed 
in  with  her  mood. 

"Sensible  fellows,"  he  said  lightly,  tapping  a  cigarette 


28  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

on  the  verandah  rail.  "Gone  home  to  bed  I  expect. 
Time  you  went  to  bed  too.  I'll  just  smoke  this  cigar- 
ette." But  as  she  turned  away  obediently,  he  caught 
her  back,  with  a  sudden  exclamation: 

"By  Jove!    I  nearly  forgot." 

He  took  a  tiny  package  from  his  pocket  and  gave  it 
to  her.  Girlishly  eager  her  fingers  shook  with  excite- 
ment as  she  ripped  the  covering  from  a  small  gold  case 
attached  to  a  slender  chain.  She  pressed  the  spring  and 
uttered  a  little  cry  of  delight.  The  miniature  of  Craven 
had  been  painted  by  a  French  artist  visiting  Yokohama 
and  was  a  faithful  portrait. 

"Oh,  Bar-ree, "  she  gasped  with  shining  eyes,  lifting 
her  face  like  a  child  for  his  kiss.  She  leaned  against 
him  studying  the  painting  earnestly,  appreciating  the 
mastery  of  a  fellow  craftsman,  ecstatically  happy  -  -  then 
she  slipped  the  chain  over  her  head  and  closing  the  case 
tucked  it  away  inside  her  kimono. 

"Now  I  have  two,"  she  murmured  softly. 

"Two?"  said  Craven  pausing  as  he  lighted  his  cigar- 
ette. "What  do  you  mean?" 

"Wait,  I  show,"  she  replied  and  vanished  into  the 
house.  She  was  back  in  a  moment  holding  in  her  hand 
another  locket.  He  took  it  from  her  and  moved  closer 
under  the  lantern  to  look  at  it.  It  hung  from  a  thick 
twisted  cable  of  gold,  and  set  round  with  pearls  it  was 
bigger  and  heavier  than  the  dainty  case  O  Hara  San 
had  hidden  against  her  heart.  For  a  moment  he  hesi- 
tated, overcoming  an  inexplicable  reluctance  to  open  it 
—  then  he  snapped  the  spring  sharply. 

"Good  God!"  he  whispered  slowly  through  dry  lips. 
And  yet  he  had  known,  known  intuitively  before  the  lid 
flew  back,  for  it  was  the  second  time  that  he  had  handled 
such  a  locket  —  the  first  he  had  seen  and  left  lying  on 
his  dead  mother's  breast.. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  29 

He  stood  as  if  turned  to  stone,  staring  with  horror  at 
the  replica  of  his  own  face  lying  in  the  hollow  of  his 
hand.  The  thick  dark  hair,  the  golden  brown  mous- 
tache, the  deep  grey  eyes  —  all  were  the  same.  Only  the 
chin  in  the  picture  was  different  for  it  was  hidden  by  a 
short  pointed  beard;  so  was  it  in  the  miniature  that  was 
buried  with  his  mother,  so  was  it  in  the  big  portrait  that 
hung  in  the  dining-room  at  Craven  Towers. 

"Who  gave  you  this?"  he  asked  thickly,  and  O  Hara 
San  stared  at  him  in  bewilderment,  frightened  at  the 
strangeness  of  his  voice. 

"My  mother,"  she  said  wonderingly.  "He  was 
Bar-ree,  too.  See,"  she  added  pointing  with  a  slender 
forefinger  to  the  name  engraved  inside  the  case. 

A  nightbird  shrieked  weirdly  close  to  the  house  and 
a  sudden  gust  of  wind  moaned  through  the  pine  trees. 
The  sweat  stood  out  on  Craven's  forehead  in  great  drops 
and  the  cigarette,  fallen  from  his  hand,  lay  smouldering 
on  the  matting  at  his  feet. 

He  pulled  the  girl  to  him  and  turning  her  face  up 
stared  down  into  the  great  grey  eyes,  piteous  now  with 
unknown  fear,  and  cursed  his  blindness.  Often  the  unrec- 
ognised likeness  had  puzzled  him.  He  dropped  the 
miniature  and  ground  it  savagely  to  powder  with  his 
heel,  heedless  of  O  Hara  San's  sharp  cry  of  distress,  and 
turned  to  the  railing  gripping  it  with  shaking  hands. 

"Damn  him,  damn  him!" 

Why  had  instinct  never  warned  him?  Why  had  he, 
knowing  the  girl's  mixed  parentage  and  knowing  his  own 
family  history,  made  no  inquiries?  A  wave  of  sick 
loathing  swept  over  him.  His  head  reeled.  He  turned 
to  O  Hara  San  crouched  sobbing  on  the  matting  over 
the  little  heap  of  crushed  gold  and  pearls.  Was  there 
still  fv  loop-hole? 


SO  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

"What  was  he  to  you?"  he  said  hoarsely,  and  he 
did  not  recognise  his  own  voice. 

She  looked  up  fearfully,  then  shrank  back  with  a  cry 
—  hiding  her  eyes  to  shut  out  the  distorted  face  that 
bent  over  her. 

"He  was  my  father,"  she  whispered  almost  inaudibly. 
But  it  sounded  to  Craven  as  if  she  had  shouted  it  from 
the  housetop.  Without  a  word  he  turned  from  her  and 
stumbled  toward  the  verandah  steps.  He  must  get 
away,  he  must  be  alone  —  alone  with  the  night  to  wrestle 
with  this  ghastly  tangle. 

O  Hara  San  sprang  to  her  feet  in  terror.  She  did  not 
understand  what  had  happened.  Her  mother  had  rarely 
spoken  of  the  man  who  had  first  betrayed  and  then 
deserted  her  —  she  had  loved  him  too  faithfully;  with  the 
girl's  limited  experience  all  western  faces  seemed 
curiously  alike  and  the  similarity  of  an  uncommon  name 
conveyed  nothing  to  her  for  she  did  not  realize  that  it 
was  uncommon.  She  could  not  comprehend  this  terrible 
change  in  the  man  who  had  never  been  anything  but 
gentle  with  her.  She  only  knew  that  he  was  going,  that 
something  inexplicable  was  taking  him  from  her.  A  wild 
scream  burst  from  her  lips  and  she  sprang  across  the 
verandah,  clinging  to  him  frantically,  her  upturned  face 
beseeching,  striving  to  hold  him. 

"Bar-ree,  Bar-reel  you  must  not  go.  I  die  without 

you.  Bar-ree!  my  love "  Her  voice  broke  in  a 

frightened  whisper  as  he  caught  her  head  in  his  hands 
and  stared  down  at  her  with  eyes  that  terrified  her. 

"Your love?"  he  repeated  with  a  strange  ring 

in  his  voice,  and  then  he  laughed  —  a  terrible  laugh  that 
echoed  horribly  in  the  silent  night  and  seemed  to  snap 
some  tension  in  his  brain.  He  tore  away  her  hands  and 
fled  down  the  steps  into  the  garden.  He  ran  blindly, 
instinctively  turning  to  the  hillside  track  that  led  further 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  31 

into  the  country,  climbing  steadily  upward,  seeking  the 
solitary  woods.  He  did  not  hear  the  girl's  shriek  of 
despair,  did  not  see  her  fall  unconscious  on  the  matting, 
he  did  not  see  a  lithe  figure  that  bounded  from  the  back 
of  the  house  nor  hear  the  feet  that  tracked  him.  He 
heard  and  saw  nothing.  His  brain  was  dulled.  His 
only  impulse  was  that  of  the  wounded  animal  —  to  hide 
himself  alone  with  nature  and  the  night.  He  plunged 
on  up  the  hillside  climbing  fiercely,  tirelessly,  wading 
mountain  streams  and  forcing  his  way  through  thick 
brushwood.  He  had  taken  off  his  coat  earlier  in  the 
evening  and  his  silk  shirt  was  ripped  to  ribbons.  His 
hair  lay  wet  against  his  forehead  and  his  cheek  dripped 
blood  where  a  splintered  bamboo  had  torn  it,  but  he  did 
not  feel  it.  He  came  at  last  to  a  tiny  clearing  in  the 
forest  where  the  moon  shone  through  a  break  in  the 
trees.  There  he  halted,  rocking  unsteadily  on  his  feet, 
passing  his  hand  across  his  face  to  clear  the  blood  and 
perspiration  from  his  eyes,  and  then  dropped  like  a  log. 
The  next  moment  the  bushes  parted  and  his  Japanese 
servant  crept  noiselessly  to  his  side.  He  bent  down 
over  him  for  an  instant.  Craven  lay  motionless  with 
his  face  hidden  in  his  arms,  but  as  the  Jap  watched  a 
shudder  shook  him  from  head  to  foot  and  the  man 
backed  cautiously,  disappearing  among  the  bushes  as 
silently  as  he  had  come. 

The  breeze  died  away  and  it  was  quite  still  within 
the  moonlit  clearing.  A  broad  shaft  of  cold  white  light 
fell  directly  on  the  prone  figure.  He  was  morally 
stunned  and  for  a  long  time  the  agony  of  his  mind  was 
blunted.  But  gradually  the  first  shock  passed  and  full 
realization  rushed  over  him.  His  hands  dug  convul- 
sively into  the  soft  earth  and  he  writhed  at  his  helpless- 
ness. What  he  had  done  was  irremediable.  It  was  a 
sudden  thunderbolt  that  had  flashed  across  his  clear  sky. 


32  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

This  morning  the  sun  had  shone  as  usual  and  everything 
had  seemed  serene  to  him  whose  life  had  always  been 
easy  —  tonight  he  was  wrestling  in  a  hell  of  his  own 
making.  Why  had  it  come  to  him?  He  knew  that  his 
life  had  been  comparatively  blameless.  Why  should 
this  one  sin,  so  common  throughout  the  world,  recoil 
on  him  so  terribly?  Why  should  he,  among  all  the 
thousands  of  men  who  had  sinned  similarly,  be  reserved 
for  such  a  nemesis?  Why  of  him  alone  should  such  a 
reckoning  be  demanded?  Surely  the  fault  was  not  his. 
Surely  it  lay  with  the  man  who  had  wrecked  his  mother's 
life  and  broken  her  heart,  the  man  who  had  neglected 
his  duties  and  repudiated  his  responsibilities  and  who 
had  been  faithful  to  neither  wife  nor  mistress.  He  was 
to  blame.  At  the  thought  of  his  father  an  access  of 
rage  passed  over  Craven  and  he  cursed  him  in  a  kind 
of  dull  fury.  His  fingers  gripped  the  ground  as  if  they 
were  about  the  throat  of  the  man  whom  he  hated  with 
all  the  strength  of  his  being.  The  mystery  of  his  father 
had  always  lain  like  a  shadow  across  his  life.  It  was 
a  subject  that  his  mother  had  refused  to  discuss.  He 
shivered  now  when  he  realized  the  agony  his  perpetual 
boyish  questions  must  have  caused  her.  His  petulance 
because  "other  fellows'  fathers"  could  be  produced 
when  necessary  and  were  not  shrouded  away  in  unex- 
plained obscurity.  He  remembered  her  unfailing  pa- 
tience with  him,  the  consistent  loyalty  she  had  shown 
toward  the  husband  who  had  failed  her  so  utterly,  the 
courage  with  which  she  had  taken  the  absent  father's 
place  with  the  son  whom  she  idolized.  He  understood 
now  her  intolerant  hatred  of  Japan  and  the  Japanese, 
an  intolerance  for  which  —  in  his  ignorance  —  he  had  often 
teased  her.  One  memory  came  to  him  with  striking 
vividness  —  a  winter  evening,  in  the  dawn  of  his  early 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  S3 

manhood,  when  they  had  been  sitting  after  dinner  in 
the  library  at  Craven  Towers  —  his  mother  lying  on  the 
sofa  that  had  been  rolled  up  before  the  fire,  and  himself 
sprawled  on  the  hearthrug  at  her  feet.  Already  tall 
and  strong  beyond  his  years  and  confident  in  the  full 
flush  of  his  adolescence  he  had  launched  into  a  glowing 
anticipation  of  the  life  that  lay  before  him.  He  had 
noticed  that  his  mother's  answers  were  monosyllabic  and 
vague,  and  then  when  he  had  broken  off,  hurt  at  her 
seeming  lack  of  interest,  she  had  suddenly  spoken  —  tell- 
ing him  what  she  had  all  the  evening  nerved  herself  ta 
say.  Her  voice  had  faltered  once  or  twice  but  she  had 
steadied  it  bravely  and  gone  on  to  the  end,  shirking 
nothing,  evading  nothing,  dealing  faithfully  with  the 
whole  sex  problem  as  far  as  she  was  able  —  outraging  her 
own  reserve  that  her  son  might  learn  the  pitfalls  and 
temptations  that  would  assuredly  lie  in  wait  for  him, 
sacrificing  her  own  modesty  that  he  might  remain  chaste. 
He  remembered  the  vivid  flush  that  had  risen  to  his  face 
and  the  growing  sense  of  hot  discomfort  with  which  he 
had  listened  to  her  low  voice;  his  half  grateful,  half 
shocked  feeling.  But  it  was  not  until  he  had  glanced 
furtively  at  her  through  his  thick  lashes  and  seen  her 
shamed  scarlet  cheeks  and  quivering  downcast  eyes  that 
he  had  realized  what  it  cost  her  and  the  courage  that 
had  made  it  possible  for  her  to  speak.  He  had  mumbled 
incoherently,  his  face  hidden  against  her  knee,  and  with 
innate  chivalry  had  kissed  the  little  white  hand  he  held 
between  his  own  great  brown  ones — "Keep  clean, 
Barry,"  she  had  whispered  tremulously,  her  hand  on 
his  ruffled  hair  —  "only  keep  clean. " 

And  later  on  in  the  same  evening  she  had  spoken  to 

him  of  the  woman  who  would  one  day  inevitably  enter 

his  life.     "Be  gentle  to  her,  Barry-boy,  you  are  such 

(  a  great  strong  fellow,  and  women,  even  the  strongest 


84  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

women,  are  weak  compared  with  men.  We  are  poor 
creatures,  the  best  of  us,  we  bruise  so  easily,"  she  had 
said  with  a  laugh  that  was  more  than  half  a  sob.  And 
for  his  mother's  sake  he  had  vowed  to  be  gentle  to  all 
women  who  might  cross  his  path.  And  how  had  he  kept 
his  vow?  Tonight  his  egoism  had  swallowed  his  oath 
and  he  had  fled  like  a  coward  to  be  alone  with  his  misery. 
A  great  sob  rose  in  his  throat.  Craven  by  name  and 
craven  by  nature  he  thought  bitterly  and  he  cursed 
again  the  father  who  had  bequeathed  him  such  an  inher- 
itance, but  as  he  did  so  he  stopped  suddenly  for  a 
soft  clear  voice  sounded  close  to  his  ear.  "No  man 
need  be  fettered  for  life  by  an  inherited  weakness.  Every 
man  who  is  worthy  of  the  name  can  rise  above  hereditary 
deficiencies."  He  lay  tense  and  his  heart  gave  a  great 
throb  and  then  he  remembered.  The  voice  was  inward 
—  it  was  only  another  memory,  an  echo  of  the  young 
mother  who  had  died,  ten  years  before.  Overwhelming 
shame  filled  him.  "Mother,  Mother!"  he  whispered 
chokingly,  and  deep  tearing  sobs  shook  his  broad  shoul- 
ders. The  moon  had  passed  beyond  the  break  in  the 
trees  and  it  was  dark  now  in  the  little  clearing  and  to 
the  man  who  lay  stripped  of  all  his  illusions  the  black- 
ness was  merciful.  He  saw  himself  as  he  was  clearly  — 
his  selfishness,  his  arrogance,  his  pride,  and  a  nausea  of 
self-hatred  filled  him.  The  eagerness  with  which  he  had 
sought  to  lay  on  his  father  the  blame  of  his  own  sin  now 
seemed  to  him  despicable.  He  would  always  hate  the 
memory  of  the  man  whose  neglect  had  killed  his  mother, 
but  the  responsibility  for  this  horror  rested  on  himself. 
He  had  made  his  own  hell  and  the  burden  of  it  lay  with 
him  only.  That  he  had  never  known  the  manner  of 
his  father's  life  in  Japan  and  that  during  the  time  he 
had  himself  been  living  in  Yokohama  he  had  cared  to 
make  no  inquiries  was  no  excuse.  He  alone  was  to 
blame. 


I 
THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  85 

The  air  seemed  suddenly  stifling,  his  head  throbbed 
and  he  panted  breathlessly.  Then  as  suddenly  the 
sensation  passed  and  he  rolled  over  on  his  back  with  a 
deep  sigh,  his  limbs  relaxed,  too  weary  to  move.  For 
a  long  time  he  lay  until  the  first  pale  streaks  of  early 
dawn  showed  above  the  tree  tops,  then  he  sat  up  with 
a  shiver  and  looked  around  curiously  at  the  silent  trees 
and  bamboo  clumps  that  had  witnessed  his  agony.  His 
head  ached  intolerably,  his  mouth  was  parched  and  the 
cut  in  his  cheek  was  stiff  and  sore.  He  staggered  to  his 
feet  and  stood  a  moment  holding  his  head  in  his  hands 
and  the  thought  of  O  Hara  San  persisted  urgently.  He 
shivered  again  as  the  image  of  the  girl's  distraught  face 
and  pleading  eyes  rose  before  him  —  in  a  few  hours  he 
would  have  to  go  to  her  and  the  thought  of  the  inter- 
view sickened  him.  But  he  could  not  go  now,  his  appear- 
ance would  terrify  her,  she  might  be  asleep  and  he 
could  not  wake  her  if  nature  had  mercifully  obliterated 
her  sorrow  for  a  few  hours.  In  his  mad  flight  he  had 
lost  all  sense  of  distance  and  locality,  but  as  the  dawn 
grew  stronger  he  recognised  his  surroundings  and  started 
to  tramp  to  his  own  bungalow  at  the  top  of  the  Bluff. 
He  stumbled  through  the  woods,  hurrying  wearily  to 
reach  home  before  the  full  light.  It  was  still  dusk  when 
he  arrived  and  crossing  the  verandah  went  into  his  bed- 
room and  flung  himself,  dressed  as  he  was,  on  to  the 
bed.  And  the  stealthy  footsteps  that  had  tracked  him 
through  the  night  followed  softly  and  stopped  outside 
the  open  doorway.  The  Jap  stood  for  a  few  moments 
listening  intently. 


CHAPTER    II 

CRAVEN  woke  abruptly  a  few  hours  later  with  a 
spasmodic  muscular  contraction  that  jerked  him 
into  a  sitting  position.  Hah*  dazed  as  yet  with  sleep 
he  swung  his  heels  to  the  floor  and  sat  on  the  edge  of 
the  bed  looking  stupidly  at  his  dusty  boots  and  earth- 
stained  fingers.  Then  remembrance  came  and  he 
clenched  his  hands  with  a  stifled  groan.  He  drank 
thirstily  the  tea  that  was  on  a  table  beside  him  and 
tirent  to  the  open  window.  As  he  crossed  the  room  the 
reflection  of  his  blood-stained  haggard  face,  seen  hi  a 
mirror,  startled  him.  A  bath  and  clean  clothes  were 
indispensable  before  he  went  back  to  the  lonely  little 
house  on  the  hillside.  He  lingered  for  a  few  minutes 
by  the  window,  glad  of  the  cool  morning  breeze  blowing 
against  his  face,  trying  to  pull  himself  together,  trying  to 
brace  himself  to  meet  the  consequences  of  his  folly,  trying 
to  drag  his  disordered  thoughts  into  something  approach- 
ing coherence.  He  stared  down  over  the  bay  and  the 
sunlit  waters  mocked  him  with  their  dancing  ripples 
sliding  lightheartedly  one  after  the  other  toward  the 
shore.  The  view  that  he  looked  upon  had  been  until 
this  morning  a  never-failing  source  of  pleasure,  now  it 
moved  him  to  nothing  but  the  recollection  of  the  hack- 
neyed line  in  the  old  hymn  —  "where  only  man  is  vile," 
and  he  was  vile  —  with  all  power  of  compensation  taken 
from  him.  To  some  was  given  the  chance  of  making 
reparation.  For  him  there  was  no  chance.  He  could  do 
nothing  to  mitigate  the  injury  he  had  done.  She  whom 

36 


37 

he  had  wronged  must  suffer  for  him  and  he  was  power- 
less to  avert  that  suffering.  His  helplessness  over- 
whelmed him.  O  Hara  San,  little  O  Kara  San,  who 
had  given  unstintingly,  with  eager  generous  hands.  His 
face  was  set  as  he  turned  from  the  window  and,  starting 
to  pull  cff  his  torn  shirt,  called  for  Yoshio.  But  no 
Yoshio  was  forthcoming  and  at  his  second  impatient 
shout  another  Japanese  servant  bowed  himself  in,  and, 
kowtowing,  intimated  that  Yoshio  had  already  gone  on 
the  honourable  lord's  errand  and  would  there  await  him, 
and  that  in  the  meantime  his  honourable  bath  was  pre- 
pared and  his  honourable  breakfast  would  be  ready  hi 
ten  minutes.  <, 

Craven  paused  with  his  shirt  hah*  off. 

"What  errand?"  he  said,  perplexed,  unaware  that 
he  was  asking  the  question  audibly. 

The  man  bowed  again,  with  hands  outspread,  and 
gravely  shook  his  head  conveying  his  total  ignorance  of 
a  matter  that  was  beyond  his  province,  but  the  panto- 
mime was  lost  on  Craven  who  was  wrestling  with  his 
shirt  and  not  even  aware  that  he  had  spoken  aloud.  It 
was  the  first  time  in  ten  years'  service  that  Yoshio  had 
failed  to  answer  a  call  and  Craven  wondered  irritably  what 
could  have  taken  him  away  at  that  time  in  the  morning, 
and  concluded  that  it  was  some  order  given  by  himself 
the  day  before,  now  forgotten,  so  dismissing  Yoshio  and 
his  affairs  from  his  mind  he  signed  to  the  still  gently 
explaining  servant  to  go. 

His  brain  felt  dull  and  tired,  his  thoughts  were  chaotic. 
He  saw  before  him  no  clear  course.  Whichever  way  he 
looked  at  it  the  horrible  tangle  grew  more  horrible.  There 
was  a  recurring  sense  of  unreality,  a  visionary  feeling 
of  detachment  which  enabled  him  to  view  the  situation 
from  an  impersonal  standpoint,  as  one  criticises  a  night- 
mare, confident  in  the  knowledge  that  it  is  only  a  dream. 


58  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

But  in  this  case  the  confidence  was  based  on  nothing 
tangible  and  the  illusion  faded  as  quickly  as  it  rose  and 
left  him  confronted  with  the  brutal  truth  from  which 
there  was  no  escape. 

In  the  dressing  room  everything  that  he  needed  had 
been  laid  out  in  readiness  for  him,  and  he  dressed 
mechanically  with  a  feverish  haste  that  struggled  ineffect- 
ually with  a  refractory  collar  stud,  and  caused  him 
to  execrate  heartily  the  absent  valet  and  his  enigmatical 
errand.  Another  ten  minutes  was  lost  while  he  hunted 
for  his  watch  and  cigarette  case  which  he  suddenly  remem- 
bered were  in  the  coat  that  he  had  left  at  the  little 
house.  Or  had  he  searched  genuinely?  Had  he  not 
rather  been  —  perhaps  unconsciously  —  procrastinating, 
shrinking  from  the  task  he  had  in  hand,  putting  off  the 
evil  moment?  He  swung  on  his  heel  violently  and 
passed  out  on  to  the  verandah.  But  at  the  head  of 
the  steps  a  vigilant  figure  rose  up,  bowing  obsequiously, 
announcing  blandly  that  breakfast  was  waiting. 

Craven  frowned  at  him  a  moment  until  the  meaning 
of  the  words  filtered  through  to  his  tired  brain,  then  he 
pushed  him  aside  roughly. 

"Oh,  damn  breakfast!"  he  cried  savagely,  and 
cramming  his  sun  helmet  on  his  head  ran  down  the 
garden  path  to  the  waiting  rickshaw.  It  never  occurred 
to  him  to  wonder  how  it  came  to  be  there  at  an  unu- 
sual hour.  He  huddled  in  the  back  of  the  rickshaw, 
his  helmet  over  his  eyes.  His  nerves  were  raw,  his  mind 
running  in  uncontrollable  riot.  The  way  had  never 
seemed  so  long.  He  looked  up  impatiently.  The  rick- 
shaw was  crawling.  The  slow  progress  and  the  forced 
inaction  galled  him  and  a  dozen  times  he  was  on  the 
point  of  calling  to  the  men  to  stop  and  jumping  out,  but 
he  forced  himself  to  sit  quietly,  watching  the  play  of 
their  abnormally  developed  muscles  showing  plainly , 


THE   SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  39 

through  the  thin  cotton  garments  that  clung  to  their 
sweat-drenched  bodies,  while  they  toiled  up  the  steep 
roads.  And  today  the  sight  of  the  men's  straining 
limbs  and  heaving  chests  moved  him  more  than  usual. 
He  used  a  rickshaw  of  necessity,  and  had  never  over- 
come his  distaste  for  them. 

Emerging  from  a  grove  of  pines  they  neared  the  little 
gateway  and  as  the  men  flung  themselves  backward  with 
a  deep  grunt  at  the  physical  exertion  of  stopping,  Craven 
leaped  out  and  dashed  up  the  path,  panic-driven.  He 
took  the  verandah  steps  in  two  strides  and  then  stopped 
abruptly,  his  face  whitening  under  the  deep  tan. 

Yoshio  stood  in  the  doorway  of  the  outer  room,  his 
arms  outstretched,  barring  the  entrance.  His  face  had 
gone  the  grey  leaden  hue  of  the  frightened  Oriental  and 
his  eyes  held  a  curious  look  of  pity.  His  attitude  put 
the  crowning  touch  to  Craven's  anxiety.  He  went  a 
step  forward. 

"Stand  aside,"  he  said  hoarsely. 

But  Yoshio  did  not  move. 

"Master  not  going  in,"  he  said  softly. 

Craven  jerked  his  head. 

"Stand  aside,"  he  repeated  monotonously. 

For  a  moment  longer  the  Jap  stood  obstinately,  then 
his  eyes  fell  under  Craven's  stare  and  he  moved  reluc- 
tantly, with  a  gesture  of  mingled  acquiescence  and  regret. 
Craven  passed  through  into  the  room.  It  was  empty. 
He  stood  a  moment  hesitating  —  indefinite  anxiety  giving 
place  to  definite  fear. 

"O  Hara  San,"  he  whispered,  and  the  whisper  seemed 
to  echo  mockingly  from  the  empty  room.  He  listened 
with  straining  ears  for  her  answer,  for  her  footstep  —  and 
he  heard  nothing  but  the  heavy  beating  of  his  own  heart. 
Then  a  moan  came  from  the  inner  room  and  he  followed 
the  sound  swiftly.  The  room  was  darkened  and  for  a 


40  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

moment  he  halted  in  the  doorway,  seeing  nothing  in 
the  half  light.  The  moaning  grew  louder  and  as  he 
became  accustomed  to  the  darkness  he  saw  the  old  armah 
crouching  beside  a  pile  of  cushions. 

In  a  second  he  was  beside  her  and  at  his  coming  she 
scrambled  to  her  feet  with  a  sharp  cry,  staring  at  him 
wildly,  then  fled  from  the  room. 

He  stood  alone  looking  down  on  the  cushions.  His 
heart  seemed  to  stop  beating  and  for  a  moment  he 
reeled,  then  he  gripped  himself  and  knelt  down  slowly. 

"O  Hara  San "  he  whispered  again,  with  shaking 

lips,  "little  O  Hara  San  —  little "  the  whisper  died 

away  in  a  terrible  gasping  sob. 

She  lay  as  if  asleep  —  one  arm  stretched  out  along  her 
side,  the  other  lying  across  her  breast  with  her  small 
hand  clenched  and  tucked  under  her  chin,  her  head  bent 
slightly  and  nestled  naturally  into  the  cushion.  The 
attitude  was  habitual.  A  hundred  times  Craven  had 
seen  her  so  —  asleep.  It  was  impossible  that  she  could 
be  dead. 

He  spoke  to  her  again  —  crying  aloud  in  agony  —  but 
the  heavily  fringed  eyelids  did  not  open,  no  glad  cry  of 
welcome  broke  from  the  parted  lips,  the  little  rounded 
bosom  that  had  always  heaved  tumultuously  at  his 
coming  was  still  under  the  silken  kimono.  He  bent  over 
her  with  ashen  face  and  laid  his  hand  gently  on  her 
breast,  but  the  icy  coldness  struck  into  his  own  heart 
and  his  touch  seemed  a  profanation.  He  drew  back  with 
a  terrible  shudder. 

How  dared  he  touch  her?  Murderer!  For  it  was 
murder.  His  work  as  surely  as  if  hjfc  had  himself  driven 
a  knife  into  that  girlish  breast  or  squeezed  the  breath 
from  that  slender  throat.  He  was  under  no  delusion. 
He  understood  the  Japanese  character  too  well  and  he 
knew  O  Hara  San  too  thoroughly  to  deceive  himself. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  41 

He  knew  the  passionate  love  that  she  had  given  him,  a 
love  that  had  often  troubled  him  with  its  intensity.  He 
had  been  her  god,  her  everything.  She  had  worshipped 
him  blindly.  And  he  had  left  her  —  left  her  alone  with 
the  memory  of  his  strangeness  and  his  harshness,  alone 
with  her  heart  breaking,  alone  with  her  fear.  And  she 
had  been  so  curiously  alone.  She  had  had  nobody  but 
him.  She  had  trusted  him  —  and  he  had  left  her.  She 
had  trusted  him.  Oh,  God,  she  had  trusted  him! 

His  quick  imagination  visualised  what  must  have 
happened.  Frantic  with  despair  and  desperate  at  the 
seeming  fulfilment  of  her  fears  she  had  not  stopped  to 
reason  nor  waited  for  calmer  reflection  but  with  the 
curious  Oriental  blending  of  impetuosity  and  stolid 
deliberation  she  had  killed  herself,  seeking  release  from 
her  misery  with  the  aid  of  the  subtle  poison  known  to 
every  Japanese  woman.  He  flung  his  arm  across  the 
little  still  body  and  his  head  fell  on  the  cushion  beside 
hers  as  his  soul  went  down  into  the  depths. 


An  hour  of  unspeakable  bitterness  passed  before  he 
regained  his  lost  control. 

Then  he  forced  himself  to  look  at  her  again.  The 
poison  had  been  swift  and  merciful.  There  was  no  dis- 
tortion of  the  little  oval  face,  no  discoloration  on  the 
fair  skin.  She  was  as  beautiful  as  she  had  always  been. 
And  with  death  the  likeness  had  become  intensified  until 
it  seemed  to  him  that  he  must  have  been  blind  beyond 
belief  to  have  failed  to  detect  it  earlier. 

He  looked  for  the  last  time  through  a  blur  of  tears. 
It  seemed  horrible  to  leave  her  to  the  ministrations  of 
others,  he  longed  to  gather  up  the  slender  body  in  his 
arms  and  with  his  own  hands  lay  her  in  the  loveliest 
corner  of  the  garden  she  had  loved  so  much.  He  tried 


42 


to  stammer  a  prayer  but  the  words  stuck  in  his  throat. 
No  intercession  from  him  was  possible,  nor  did  she  need 
it.  She  had  passed  into  the  realm  of  Infinite  Under- 
standing. 

He  rose  to  his  feet  slowly  and  lingered  for  a  moment 
looking  his  last  round  the  little  room  that  was  so  familiar. 
Here  were  a  few  of  her  most  treasured  possessions,  some 
that  had  come  to  her  from  her  mother,  some  that  he 
had  given  her.  He  knew  them  all  so  well,  had  handled 
them  so  often.  A  spasm  crossed  his  face.  It  had  been 
the  home  of  the  enchanted  princess,  shut  off  from  all 
the  world  —  until  he  had  come.  And  his  coming  had 
brought  desolation.  Near  him  a  valuable  vase,  that  she 
had  prized,  lay  smashed  on  the  floor,  overturned  by  the 
old  armah  in  the  first  frenzy  of  her  grief.  It  was  sym- 
bolical and  Craven  turned  from  it  with  quivering  lips 
and  went  out  heavily. 

He  winced  at  the  strong  light  and  shaded  his  eyes  for 
a  moment  with  his  hand.  , 

Yoshio  was  waiting  where  he  had  left  him.  Craven 
walked  to  the  edge  of  the  verandah  and  stood  for  a  few 
moments  in  silence,  steadying  himself. 

"Where  were  you  last  night,  Yoshio?"  he  asked  at 
length,  in  a  flat  and  tired  voice. 

The  Jap  shrugged. 

"In  town,"  he  said,  with  American  brevity  learned 
in  California. 

"Why  did  you  come  here  this  morning?" 

Yoshio  raised  eyes  of  childlike  surprise. 

"Master's  watch.  Came  here  to  find  it,"  he  said 
nonchalantly,  with  an  air  that  expressed  pride  at  his 
own  astuteness.  But  it  did  not  impress  Craven.  He 
looked  at  him  keenly,  knowing  that  he  was  lying  but 
not  understanding  the  motive  and  too  tired  to  try  and 
understand.  He  felt  giddy  and  his  head  was  aching 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  43 

violently  —  for  a  moment  everything  seemed  to  swim 
before  his  eyes  and  he  caught  blindly  at  the  verandah  rail. 
But  the  sensation  passed  quickly  and  he  pulled  himself 
together,  to  find  Yoshio  beside  him  thrusting  his  helmet 
into  his  hands. 

"Better  Master  going  back  to  bungalow.  I  make  all 
arrangements,  understanding  Japanese  ways,"  he  said 
calmly. 

His  words,  matter-of-fact,  almost  brutal,  brought 
Craven  abruptly  to  actualities.  There  was  necessity  for 
immediate  action.  This  was  the  East,  where  the  grim 
finalities  must  unavoidably  be  hastened.  But  he  re- 
sented the  man's  suggestion.  To  go  back  to  the  bun- 
galow seemed  a  shirking  of  the  responsibility  that  was 
his,  the  last  insult  he  could  offer  her.  But  Yoshio  argued 
vehemently,  blunt  to  a  degree,  and  Craven  winced  once 
or  twice  at  the  irrefutable  reasons  he  put  forward.  It 
was  true  that  he  could  do  no  real  good  by  staying.  It 
was  true  that  he  was  of  no  use  in  the  present  emergency, 
that  his  absence  would  make  things  easier.  But  that  it 
was  the  truth  made  it  no  less  hard  to  hear.  He  gave 
in  at  last  and  agreed  to  all  Yoshio's  proposals  —  a  curious 
compound  of  devotion  to  his  master,  shrewd  common- 
sense  and  knowledge  of  the  laws  of  the  country.  He 
went  quickly  down  the  winding  path  to  the  gate.  The 
garden  hurt  him.  The  careless  splashing  of  the  tiny 
waterfall  jarred  poignantly  —  laughing  water  caring  noth- 
ing that  the  hand  that  had  planted  much  of  the  beauty 
of  its  banks  was  stilled  for  ever.  It  had  always  seemed 
a  living  being  tumbling  joyously  down  the  hillside,  it 
seemed  alive  now  —  callous,  self-absorbed. 

Craven  had  no  clear  impression  of  the  run  back  into 
Yokohama  and  he  looked  up  with  surprise  when  the  men 
stopped.  He  stood  outside  the  gate  for  a  moment  look- 
ing over  the  harbour.  He  stared  at  the  place  in  the 


44  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

roadstead  where  the  American  yacht  had  been  anchored. 
Only  last  night  had  he  laughed  and  chatted  with  the 
Athertops?  It  was  a  lifetime  ago!  In  one  night  his 
youth  had  gone  from  him.  In  one  night  he  had  piled 
up  a  debt  that  was  beyond  payment.  He  gave  a  quick 
glance  up  at  the  brilliant  sky  and  then  went  into  the 
house.  In  the  sitting-room  he  started  slowly  to  pace 
the  floor,  his  hands  clasped  behind  him,  an  unlit  cigarette 
clenched  between  his  teeth.  The  mechanical  action 
steadied  him  and  enabled  him  to  concentrate  his 
thoughts.  Monotonously  he  tramped  up  and  down  the 
long  narrow  room,  unconscious  of  time,  until  at  last  he 
dropped  on  to  a  chair  beside  the  writing  table  and  laid 
his  head  down  on  his  arms  with  a  weary  sigh.  The  little 
still  body  seemed  present  with  him.  O  Hara  San's  face 
continually  before  him  —  piteous  as  he  had  seen  it  last, 
joyous  as  she  had  greeted  him  and  thoughtful  as  when 
he  had  first  seen  it. 

That  first  time  —  the  memory  of  it  rose  vividly  before 
him.  He  had  been  in  Yokohama  about  a  month  and 
was  settled  in  his  bungalow.  He  had  gone  to  the  woods 
to  sketch  and  had  found  her  huddled  at  the  foot  of  a 
steep  rock  from  which  she  had  slipped.  Her  ankle  was 
twisted  and  she  could  not  move.  He  had  offered  his 
assistance  and  she  had  gazed  at  him,  without  speaking, 
for  a  few  moments,  with  serious  grey  eyes  that  looked 
oddly  out  of  place  in  her  little  oval  face.  Then  she  had 
answered  him  in  slow  carefully  pronounced  English.  He 
had  laughingly  insisted  on  carrying  her  home  and  had 
just  gathered  her  up  into  his  arms  when  the  old  armah 
arrived,  voluble  with  excitement  and  alarm  for  het 
charge.  But  the  girl  had  explained  to  her  in  rapid  Jap- 
anese and  the  woman  had  hurried  on  to  the  house 
to  prepare  for  them,  leaving  Craven  to  follow  more 
slowly  with  his  light  burden.  He  had  stayed  only  a 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  45 

few    minutes,    drinking   the    ceremonial    tea    that    was 
offered  so  shyly. 

The  next  day  he  had  convinced  himself  that  it  was 
only  polite  for  him  to  enquire  about  the  injured  foot. 
Then  he  had  gone  again,  hoping  to  relieve  the  tedium 
of  her  forced  inactivity,  until  the  going  had  become  a 
habit.  The  acquaintance  had  ripened  quickly.  From 
the  first  she  had  trusted  him,  quickly  losing  her  awe  of 
him  and  accepting  his  coming  with  the  simplicity  of  a 
child.  She  had  early  confided  to  him  the  story  of  her 
short  life  —  of  her  solitude  and  friendlessness;  of  the 
mother  who  had  died  five  years  before,  bequeathing  to 
her  the  little  house  which  had  been  the  last  gift  of  the 
Englishman  who  had  been  O  Kara  San's  father  and  who 
had  tired  of  her  mother  and  left  her  two  years  after  her 
own  birth;  of  the  poverty  against  which  they  had  strug- 
gled —  for  the  Englishman  had  left  no  provision  for  them; 
of  the  faithful  old  servant,  who  had  been  her  mother's 
nurse;  of  O  Hara  San's  discovery  of  her  own  artistic 
talent  which  had  enabled  her  to  provide  for  the  simple 
wants  of  the  little  household.  She  had  grown  up  alone 
—  apart  from  the  world,  watched  over  by  the  old  woman, 
her  mind  a  tangle  of  fairy-tales  and  romance  —  living 
for  her  art,  content  with  her  solitude.  And  into  her 
secluded  life  had  come  Barry  Craven  and  swept  her  off 
her  feet.  Child  of  nature  that  she  was  she  had  been 
unable  to  hide  from  him  the  love  that  quickly  over- 
whelmed her.  And  to  Craven  the  incident  of  O  Hara 
San  had  come  merely  as  a  relief  to  the  monotony  of 
lotus-eating,  he  had  drifted  into  the  connection  from 
sheer  ennui.  And  then  had  come  interest.  No  woman 
had  ever  before  interested  him.  He  had  never  been  able 
to  define  the  attraction  she  had  had  for  him,  the  odd 
tenderness  he  had  felt  for  her.  He  had  treated  her  as 
a  plaything,  a  fragile  toy  to  be  teased  and  petted.  And 


46  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

in  his  hands  she  had  developed  from  an  innocent  child 
into  a  woman  —  with  a  woman's  capacity  for  devotion 
and  self-sacrifice.  She  had  given  everything,  with  trust 
and  gladness.  And  he  had  taken  all  she  gave,  with 
colossal  egoism,  as  his  right  —  accepting  lightly  all  she 
surrendered  with  no  thought  for  the  innocence  he  con- 
taminated, the  purity  he  soiled.  He  had  stained  her 
soul  before  he  had  killed  her  body.  His  hands  clenched 
and  unclenched  convulsively  with  the  agony  of  remorse. 
Recollection  was  torture.  Repentance  came  too  late. 
Too  late!  Too  late!  The  words  kept  singing  in  his 
head  as  if  a  demon  from  hell  was  howling  them  in  his 
ear.  Nothing  on  earth  could  undo  what  he  had  done. 
No  power  could  animate  that  little  dead  body.  And  if 
she  had  lived!  He  shuddered.  But  she  had  not  lived, 
she  had  died  —  because  of  him.  Because  of  him,  Merci- 
ful God,  because  of  him!  And  he  could  make  no  resti- 
tution. What  was  there  left  for  him  to  do?  A  life  of 
expiation  was  not  atonement  enough.  There  seemed 
only  one  solution  —  a  life  for  a  life.  And  that  was  no 
reparation,  only  justice.  He  put  no  value  on  his  own 
life  —  he  wished  vaguely  that  the  worth  of  it  were  greater 
• —  he  had  merely  wasted  it  and  now  he  had  forfeited  it. 
Remained  only  to  end  it  —  now.  There  was  no  reason 
for  delay.  He  had  no  preparations  to  make.  His  affairs 
were  all  in  order.  His  heir  was  his  aunt,  his  father's 
only  sister,  who  would  be  a  better  guardian  of  the  Craven 
estates  and  interests  than  he  had  ever  been.  Peters  was 
independent  and  Yoshio  provided  for.  There  was  noth- 
ing to  be  done.  He  rose  and  opening  a  drawer  in  the 
table  took  out  a  revolver  and  held  it  a  moment  in  his 
hand,  looking  at  it  dispassionately.  It  was  not  the  ulti- 
mate purpose  for  which  it  had  been  intended.  He 
had  never  imagined  a  time  when  he  might  end  his  own 
Kfe.  He  had  always  vaguely  connected  suicide  with 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  4T 

cowardice.  Was  it  the  coward's  way?  Perhaps!  Who 
can  say  what  cowardice  or  courage  is  required  to  take 
the  blind  leap  into  the  Great  Unknown?  That  did  not 
trouble  him.  It  was  no  question  of  courage  or  cowardice 
but  he  felt  convinced  that  his  death  was  the  only  pay- 
ment possible. 

But  as  his  finger  pressed  the  trigger  there  was  a  slight 
.sound  beside  him,  his  wrist  and  arm  were  caught  in  a 
vice-like  grip  and  the  weapon  exploded  harmlessly  in 
the  air  as  he  staggered  back,  his  arm  almost  broken  with 
the  jiu-jitsu  hold  against  which  even  his  great  strength 
could  do  nothing.  He  struggled  fruitlessly  until  he  was 
released,  then  reeled  against  the  table,  with  teeth  set, 
clasping  his  wrenched  wrist  —  the  sudden  frustration  of 
his  purpose  leaving  him  shaking.  He  turned  stiffly. 
Yoshio  was  standing  by  him,  phlegmatic  as  usual, 
showing  no  signs  of  exertion  or  emotion  as  he  proffered 
a  lacquer  tray,  with  the  usual  formula:  "Master's  mail." 

Craven's  eyes  changed  slowly  from  dull  suffering  to 
blazing  wrath.  Uncontrolled  rage  filled  him.  How 
dared  Yoshio  interfere?  How  dared  he  drag  him  back 
into  the  hell  from  which  he  had  so  nearly  escaped?  Ha 
caught  the  man's  shoulder  savagely. 

"Damn  you!"  he  cried  chokingly.  "What  the 

devil  do  you  mean "  But  the  Jap's  very  impas- 

siveness  checked  him  and  with  an  immense  effort  he 
regained  command  of  himself.  And  imperturbably 
Yoshio  advanced  the  tray  again. 

"Master's  mail,"  he  repeated,  in  precisely  the  same 
voice  as  before,  but  this  time  he  raised  his  veiled  glance 
to  Craven's  face.  For  a  moment  the  two  men  stared 
at  each  other,  the  grey  eyes  tortured  and  drawn,  the 
brown  ones  lit  for  an  instant  with  deep  devotion.  Then 
Craven  took  the  letters  mechanically  and  dropped 


48  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

heavily  into  a  chair.  The  Jap  picked  up  the  revolver 
and,  quietly  replacing  it  in  the  drawer  from  which  it 
had  been  taken,  left  the  room,  noiseless  as  he  had  entered 
it.  He  seemed  to  know  intuitively  that  it  would  be  left 
where  he  put  it. 

Alone,  Craven  leaned  forward  with  a  groan,  burying 
his  face  in  his  hands. 

At  last  he  sat  up  wearily  and  his  eyes  fell  on  the  letters 
lying  unopened  on  the  table  beside  him.  He  fingered 
them  listlessly  and  then  threw  them  down  again  while 
he  searched  his  pockets  absently  for  the  missing  cigarette 
case.  Remembering,  he  jerked  himself  to  his  feet  with 
an  exclamation  of  pain.  Was  all  life  henceforward  to  be 
a  series  of  torturing  recollections?  He  swore,  and  flung 
his  head  up  angrily.  Coward!  whining  already  like  a 
kicked  cur! 

He  got  a  cigarette  from  a  near  table  and  picking  up 
the  letters  carried  them  out  on  to  the  verandah  to  read. 
There  were  two,  both  registered.  The  handwriting  on 
one  envelope  was  familiar  and  his  eyes  widened  as  he 
looked  at  it.  He  opened  it  first.  It  was  written  from 
Florence  and  dated  three  months  earlier.  With  no  formal 
beginning  it  straggled  up  and  down  the  sides  of  various 
sheets  of  cheap  foreign  paper,  the  inferior  violet  ink 
almost  indecipherable  in  places. 

"I  wonder  in  what  part  of  the  globe  this  letter  will 
find  you?  I  have  been  trying  to  write  to  you  for  a  long 
time  —  and  always  putting  it  off  —  but  they  tell  me  now 
that  if  I  am  to  write  at  all  there  must  be  no  more  manana. 
They  have  cried  'wolf'  so  often  in  the  last  few  months 
that  I  had  grown  sceptical,  but  even  I  realise  now  that 
there  must  be  no  delay.  I  have  delayed  because  I  have 
procrastinated  all  my  life  and  because  I  am  ashamed 
—  ashamed  for  the  first  time  in  all  my  shameless 
career.  But  there  is  no  need  to  tell  you  what  I  am  — 
you  told  me  candidly  enough  yourself  in  the  old  days 


-THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  49 

—  it  is  sufficient  to  say  that  it  is  the  same  John  Locke  as 
then  —  drunkard  and  gambler,  spendthrift  and  waster! 
And  I  don't  think  that  my  worst  enemy  would  have 
much  to  add  to  this  record,  but  then  my  worst  enemy 
has  always  been  myself.    Looking  back  now  over  my  life 

—  queer  what  a  stimulating  effect  the  certainty  of  death 
has  to  the  desire  to  find  even  one  good  action  wherewith 
to  appease  one's  conscience  —  it  is  a  marvel  to  me  that 
Providence  has  allowed  me  to  cumber  the  earth  so  long. 
However,  it's  all  over  now  —  they  give  me  a  few  days  at 
the  outside  —  so  I  must  write  at  once  or  never.  Barry, 
I'm  in  trouble,  the  bitterest  trouble  I  have  ever  experi- 
enced —  not  for  myself,  God  knows  I  wouldn't  ask  even 
your  help,  but  for  another  who  is  dearer  to  me  than  all 
the  world  and  for  whose  future  I  can  do  nothing. 
You  never  knew  that  I  married.  I  committed  that  indis- 
cretion in  Rome  with  a  little  Spanish  dancer  who  ought 
to  have  known  better  than  to  be  attracted  by  my  beaux 
yeux  —  for  I  had  nothing  else  to  offer  her.  We  existed 
in  misery  for  a  couple  of  years  and  then  she  left  me,  for 
a  more  gilded  position.  But  I  had  the  cmld,  which  was 
all  I  cared  about.  Thank  God,  for  her  sake,  that  I  was 
legally  married  to  poor  little  Lola,  she  has  at  least  no 
stain  on  her  birth  with  which  to  reproach  me.  The  offi- 
cious individual  who  is  personally  conducting  me  to 
the  Valley  of  the  Shadow  warns  me  that  I  must  be  brief 

—  I  kept  the  child  with  me  as  long  as  I  could,  people 
were  wonderfully  kind,  but  it  was  no  life  for  her.    I've 
come  down  in  the  social  scale  even  since  you  knew  me, 
Barry,  and  at  last  I  sent  her  away,  though  it  broke  my 
heart.    Still  even  that  was  better  than  seeing  her  day  by 
day  lose  all  respect  for  me.    My  miserable  pittance  dies 
with  me  and  she  is  absolutely  unprovided  for.  My  family 
cast  off  me  and  all  my  works  many  years  ago,  but  I  put 
my  pride  in  my  pocket  and  appealed  for  help  for  Gillian 
and  they  suggested  —  a  damned  charitable  institution ! 
I  was  pretty  nearly  desperate  until  I  thought  of  you.    I 
know  no  one  else.    For  God's  sake,  Barry,  don't  fail  me. 
I  can  and  I  do  trust  Gillian  to  you.    I  have  made  you 
her  guardian,  it  is  all  legally  arranged  and  my  lawyer  in 
London  has  the  papers.    He  is  a  well-known  man  and 
emanates    respectability  —  my    last    claim   to    decency ! 


50  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

Gillian  is  at  the  Convent  of  the  Sacred  Heart  in  Paris. 
My  only  consolation  is  that  you  are  so  rich  that  finan- 
cially she  will  be  no  embarrassment  to  you.  I  realize 
what  I  am  asking  and  the  enormity  of  it,  but  I  am  a 
dying  man  and  my  excuse  is  —  Gillian.  Oh,  man,  be 
good  to  my  little  girl.  I  always  hoped  that  something 
would  turn  up,  but  it  didn't!  Perhaps  I  never  went  to 
look  for  it,  quien  sabe?  I  shall  never  have  the  chance 
again.  ..." 

The  signature  was  barely  recognisable,  the  final  letter 
terminating  in  a  wandering  line  as  if  the  pen  had  dropped 
from  nerveless  fingers. 

Craven  stared  at  the  loose  sheets  in  his  hands  for  some 
time  in  horrified  dismay,  at  first  hardly  comprehending, 
then  as  the  full  significance  of  John  Locke's  dying  bequest 
dawned  on  him  he  flung  them  down  and,  walking  to 
the  edge  of  the  verandah,  looked  over  the  harbour, 
tugging  his  moustache  and  scowling  in  utter  perplexity. 
A  child  —  a  girl  child !  How  could  he  with  his  soiled 
hands  assume  the  guardianship  of  a  child?  He  smiled 
bitterly  at  the  irony  of  it.  Providence  was  dealing  hard 
with  the  child  in  the  Paris  convent,  from  dissolute  father 
to  criminal  guardian.  And  yet  Providence  had  already 
that  morning  intervened  on  her  behalf  —  two  minutes 
later  and  there  would  have  been  no  guardian  to  take 
the  trust.  Providence  clearly  held  the  same  views  as 
John  Locke  on  charitable  institutions. 

He  thought  of  Locke  as  he  had  known  him  years  ago, 
in  Paris,  a  man  twenty  years  his  senior  —  penniless  and 
intemperate  but  with  an  irresistible  charm,  rolling  stone 
and  waster  but  proud  as  a  Spaniard;  a  man  of  the  world 
with  the  heart  of  a  boy,  the  enemy  of  nobody  but  him- 
self, weak  but  lovable;  a  ragged  coat  and  the  manners 
of  a  prince;  idealist  and  failure. 

Craven  read  the  letter  through  again.  Locke  had 
forced  his  hand  —  he  had  no  option  but  to  take  up  the 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  51 

charge  entrusted  to  him.  What  a  legacy!  Surely  if  John 
Locke  had  known  he  would  have  rather  committed  his 
daughter  to  the  tender  mercies  even  of  the  "institu- 
tion." But  he  had  not  known  and  he  had  trusted  him. 
The  thought  was  a  sudden  spur,  urging  him  as  nothing 
else  could  have  done,  bringing  out  all  that  was  best 
and  strongest  in  his  nature.  In  a  few  hours  he  had  crashed 
from  the  pinnacle  on  which  he  had  soared  in  the  blind- 
ness of  egoism  down  into  depths  of  self-realisation  that 
seemed  bottomless,  and  at  the  darkest  moment  when 
his  world  was  lying  in  pieces  under  his  feet  —  this  had 
come.  Another  chance  had  been  given  to  him.  Craven's 
jaw  set  squarely  as  he  thrust  Locke's  dying  appeal  into 
his  pocket. 

He  ripped  open  the  second  letter.  It  was,  as  he  guessed, 
from  the  lawyer  and  merely  confirmed  Locke's  letter, 
with  the  additional  information  that  his  client  had  died 
a  few  hours  after  writing  the  said  letter  and  that  he  had 
forwarded  the  news  to  the  Mother  Superior  of  the  Con- 
vent School  in  Paris. 

Craven  went  back  into  the  sitting-room  to  write  cables. 


CHAPTER    III 

OWING  to  a  breakdown  on  the  line  the  boat-train 
from  Marseilles  crawled  into  the  Gare  du  Lyon  a 
couple  of  hours  late.  Craven  had  not  slept.  He  had 
given  his  berth  in  the  waggon-lit  to  an  invalid  fellow 
passenger  and  had  sat  up  all  night  in  an  overcrowded, 
overheated  carriage,  choked  with  the  stifling  atmosphere, 
his  long  legs  cramped  for  lack  of  space. 

It  was  early  March,  and  the  difference  between  the 
temperature  of  the  train  and  the  raw  air  of  the  station 
struck  him  unpleasantly  as  he  climbed  down  on  to  the 
platform. 

Leaving  Yoshio,  equally  at  home  in  Paris  as  in  Yoko- 
hama, to  collect  luggage,  he  signalled  to  a  waiting  taxi. 
He  had  the  hood  opened  and,  pushing  back  his  hat,  let 
the  keen  wind  blow  about  his  face.  The  cab  jerked  over 
the  rough  streets,  at  this  early  hour  crowded  with  people 
—  working  Paris  going  to  its  daily  toil  —  and  he  watched 
them  hurrying  by  with  the  indifference  of  familiarity. 
Gradually  he  ceased  even  to  look  at  the  varied  types, 
the  jostling  traffic,  the  bizarre  posters  and  the  busy 
newspaper  kiosks.  His  thoughts  were  back  hi  Yoko- 
hama. It  had  been  six  weeks  before  he  could  get 
away,  six  interminable  weeks  of  misery  and  self-loath- 
ing. He  had  shirked  nothing  and  evaded  nothing.  Much 
had  been  saved  him  by  the  discreet  courtesy  of  the 
Japanese  officials,  but  the  ordeal  had  left  him  with 
jangling  nerves.  Fortunately  the  ship  was  nearly 

£2 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  53 

r  empty  and  the  solitude  he  sought  obtainable.  He  felt 
an  outcast.  To  have  joined  as  he  had  always  previously 
done  in  the  light-hearted  routine  of  a  crowded  ship  bent 
on  amusements  and  gaiety  would  have  been  impossible. 

He  sought  mental  relief  in  action  and  hours  spent 
tramping  the  lonely  decks  brought,  if  not  relief,  endur- 
ance. 

And,  always  in  the  background,  Yoshio,  capable  and 
devoted,  stood  between  him  and  the  petty  annoyances 
that  inevitably  occur  in  travelling  —  annoyances  that  in 
his  overwrought  state  would  have  been  doubly  annoying 
—  with  a  thoughtfulness  that  was  silently  expressed  hi  a 
dozen  different  devices  for  his  comfort.  That  the  Jap 
knew  a  great  deal  more  than  he  himself  did  of  the  tragedy 
that  had  happened  in  the  little  house  on  the  hill  Craven 
felt  sure,  but  no  information  had  been  volunteered 
and  he  had  asked  for  none.  He  could  not  speak  of  it. 
And  Yoshio,  the  inscrutable,  would  continue  to  be 
silent.  The  perpetual  reminder  of  all  that  he  could  wish 
to  forget  Yoshio  became,  illogically,  more  than  ever 
indispensable  to  him.  At  first,  in  his  stunned  condi- 
tion, he  had  scarcely  been  sensible  of  the  man's  tact 
and  care,  but  gradually  he  had  come  to  realize  how  much 
he  owed  to  his  Japanese  servant.  And  yet  that  was  the 
least  of  his  obligation.  There  was  a  greater  —  the  matter 
of  a  life;  whatever  it  might  mean  to  Craven,  to  Yoshio 
the  simple  payment  of  a  debt  contracted  years  ago  in 
California.  That  more  than  this  had  underlain  the  Jap- 
anese mind  when  it  made  its  quick  decision  Craven  could 
not  determine;  the  code  of  the  Oriental  is  not  that  of 
the  Occidental,  the  demands  of  honour  are  interpreted 
and  satisfied  differently.  Life  in  itself  is  nothing  to  the 
Japanese,  the  disposal  of  it  merely  the  exigency  of  a 
moment  and  withal  a  personal  prerogative.  By  all  the 
accepted  canons  of  his  own  national  ideals  Yoshio 


54  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

should  have  stood  on  one  side  —  but  he  had  chosen  to 
interfere.  Whatever  the  motive,  Yoshio  had  paid  his  debt 
in  full. 

The  weeks  at  sea  braced  Craven  as  nothing  else  could 
have  done.  As  the  ship  neared  France  the  perplexities 
of  the  charge  he  was  preparing  to  undertake  increased. 
His  utter  unfitness  filled  him  with  dismay.  On  receipt  of 
John  Locke's  amazing  letter  he  had  both  cabled  and 
written  to  his  aunt  in  London  explaining  his  dilemma, 
giving  suitable  extracts  from  Locke's  appeal,  and  implor- 
ing her  help.  And  yet  the  thought  of  his  aunt  in  con- 
nection with  the  upbringing  of  a  child  brought  a  smile 
to  his  lips.  She  was  about  as  unsuited,  in  her  own  way, 
as  he.  Caro  Craven  was  a  bachelor  lady  of  fifty  — 
spinster  was  a  term  wholly  inapplicable  to  the  strong- 
minded  little  woman  who  had  been  an  art  student  in 
Paris  in  the  days  when  insular  hands  were  lifted  in  horror 
at  the  mere  idea,  and  was  a  designation,  moreover, 
deprecated  strongly  by  herself  as  an  insult  to  one  who 
stood  —  at  least  in  her  own  sphere  —  on  an  equality 
with  the  lords  of  creation.  She  was  a  sculptor,  whose 
work  was  known  on  both  sides  of  the  channel.  When  at 
home  she  lived  in  a  big  house  in  London,  but  she  trav- 
elled much,  accompanied  by  an  elderly  maid  who  had 
been  with  her  for  thirty  years.  And  it  was  of  the  maid 
as  much  as  of  the  mistress  that  Craven  thought  as  the 
taxi  bumped  over  the  cobbled  streets. 

"If  we  can  only  interest  Mary."  There  was  a  gleam 
of  hope  in  the  thought.  "She  will  be  the  saving  of  the 
situation.  She  spoiled  me  thoroughly  when  I  was  a 
nipper."  And  buoyed  with  the  recollection  of  grim- 
visaged  angular  Mary,  who  hid  a  very  tender  heart 
beneath  a  somewhat  forbidding  exterior,  he  overpaid  the 
chauffeur  cheerfully. 

There  was  an  accumulation  of  letters  waiting  for  him 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  55 

at  the  hotel,  but  he  shuffled  them  all  into  his  overcoat 
pocket,  with  the  exception  of  one  from  Peters  which  he 
tore  open  and  read  immediately,  still  standing  in  the 
lounge. 

An  hour  later  he  set  out  on  foot  for  the  quiet  hotel 
which  had  been  his  aunt's  resort  since  her  student  days, 
and  where  she  was  waiting  for  him  now,  according  to  a 
telegram  that  he  had  received  on  his  arrival  at  Mar- 
seilles. The  hall  door  of  her  private  suite  was  opened  by 
the  elderly  maid,  whose  face  lit  up  as  she  greeted  him. 

"Miss  Craven  is  waiting  in  the  salon,  sir.  She  has 
been  tramping  the  floor  this  hour  or  more,  expecting 
you,"  she  confided  as  she  preceded  him  down  the 
corridor. 

Miss  Craven  was  standing  in  a  characteristic  attitude 
before  an  open  fireplace,  her  feet  planted  firmly  on  the 
hearthrug,  her  short  plump  figure  clothed  in  a  grey  coat 
and  skirt  of  severe  masculine  cut,  her  hands  plunged 
deep  into  her  jacket  pockets,  her  short  curly  grey  hair 
considerably  ruffled.  She  bore  down  on  her  nephew  with 
out-stretched  hands. 

"My  dear  boy,  there  you  are  at  last!  I  have  been 
waiting  hours  for  you.  Your  train  must  have  been  very 
late  —  abominable  railway  service!  Have  you  had  any 
breakfast?  Yes?  Good.  Then  take  a  cigarette  —  they 
are  in  that  box  at  your  elbow  —  and  tell  me  about  this 
amazing  thunderbolt  that  you  have  hurled  at  me.  What 
a  preposterous  proposition  for  two  bachelors  like  you 
and  me!  To  be  sure  your  extraordinary  friend  did  not 
include  me  in  his  wild  scheme  —  though  no  doubt  he 
would  have,  had  he  known  of  my  existence.  Was  the 
man  mad?  Who  was  he,  anyhow?  John  Locke  of  where? 
There  are  dozens  of  Lockes.  And  why  did  he  seJec* 
you  of  all  people?  What  fools  men  are!"  She  sub- 
sided suddenly  into  an  easy  chair  and  crossed  on* 


56  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

neat  pump  over  the  other.  "All  of  'em!"  she  added 
emphatically,  flicking  cigarette  ash  into  the  fire  with  a 
vigorous  sidelong  jerk.  Her  eyes  were  studying  his  face 
attentively,  seeking  for  themselves  the  answer  to  the 
more  personal  inquiries  that  would  have  seemed  neces- 
sary to  a  less  original  woman  meeting  a  much-loved 
nephew  after  a  lapse  of  years.  Craven  smiled  at  the 
characteristically  peculiar  greeting  and  the  well  remem- 
bered formula.  He  settled  his  long  limbs  comfortably 
into  an  opposite  chair. 

"Even  Peter?"  he  asked,  lighting  a  cigarette. 

Miss  Craven  laughed  good  temperedly. 

"Peter,"  she  rejoined  succinctly,  "is  the  one  brilliant 
exception  that  proves  the  rule.  I  have  an  immense 
respect  for  Peter."  He  looked  at  her  curiously.  "And 
—  me,  Aunt  Caro?"  he  asked  with  an  odd  note  in  his 
voice.  Miss  Craven  glanced  for  a  moment  at  the  big 
figure  sprawled  in  the  chair  near  her,  then  looked  back 
at  the  fire  with  pursed  lips  and  wrinkled  forehead,  and 
rumpled  her  hair  more  thoroughly  than  before. 

"My  dear  boy,"  she  said  at  last  soberly,  "you  resemble 
my  unhappy  brother  altogether  too  much  for  my  peace 
of  mind. " 

He  winced.  Her  words  probed  the  still  raw  wound. 
But  unaware  of  the  appositeness  of  her  remark  Miss 
Craven  continued  thoughtfully,  still  staring  into  the  fire: 

"The  Supreme  Sculptor,  when  He  made  me,  denied 
me  the  good  looks  that  are  proverbial  in  our  family  — 
but  in  compensation  he  endowed  me  with  a  solid  mind 
to  match  my  solid  body.  The  Family  means  a  great  deal 
to  me,  Barry  —  more  than  anybody  has  ever  realised 
—  and  there  are  times  when  I  wonder  why  the  solidity  of 
mind  was  given  to  the  one  member  of  the  race  who  could 
not  perpetuate  it  in  the  direct  line."  She  sighed,  and 
then  as  if  ashamed  of  unwonted  emotion,  jerked  her 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  57 

dishevelled  grey  head  with  a .  movement  that  was  sig- 
nularly  reminiscent  of  her  nephew.  Craven  flushed. 

"You're  the  best  man  of  the  family,  Aunt  Caro." 

"  So  your  mother  used  to  say  —  poor  child. "  Her 
voice  softened  suddenly.  She  got  up  restlessly  and 
resumed  her  former  position  before  the  fire,  her  hands 
back  in  the  pockets  of  her  mannish  coat. 

"What  about  your  plans,  Barry?  What  are  you  going 
to  do?"  she  said  briskly,  with  an  evident  desire  to  avoid 
further  moralising.  He  joined  her  on  the  hearthrug, 
leaning  against  the  mantelpiece. 

"I  propose  to  settle  down  —  at  any  rate  for  a  time,  at 
the  Towers,"  he  replied.  "I  intend  to  interest  myself 
in  the  estates.  Peter  insists  that  I  am  wanted,  and  though 
that  is  nonsense  and  he  is  infinitely  more  necessary  than 
I  am,  still  I  am  willing  to  make  the  trial.  I  owe  him 
more  than  I  can  even  repay  —  we  all  do  —  and  if  my 
presence  is  really  any  help  to  him  —  he's  welcome  to  it. 
I  shall  be  about  as  much  real  use  as  the  fifth  wheel  of 
a  coach  —  a  damned  rotten  wheel  at  that,"  he  added 
bitterly.  And  for  some  minutes  he  seemed  to  forget  that 
there  was  more  to  say,  staring  silently  into  the  fire  and 
from  time  to  time  putting  together  the  blazing  logs  with 
his  foot. 

Miss  Craven  was  possessed  of  the  unfeminine  attribute 
of  holding  her  tongue  and  reserving  her  comments.  She 
refrained  from  comment  now,  rocking  gently  backward 
and  forward  on  her  heels  —  a  habit  associated  with  mental 
concentration. 

"I  shall  take  the  child  to  the  Towers,"  he  continued 
at  length,  "and  there  I  shall  want  your  help,  Aunt  Caro." 
He  paused  stammering  awkwardly  —  "It's  an  infernal 
impertinence  asking  you  to  —  to " 

"To  turn  nursemaid  at  my  time  of  life,"  she  inter- 
rupted. "It  is  certainly  a  career  I  never  anticipated. 


58  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

And,  candidly,  I  have  doubts  about  its  success,"  she 
laughed  and  shrugged,  with  a  comical  grimace.  Then 
she  patted  his  arm  affectionately — "You  had  much 
better  take  Peter's  advice  and  marry  a  nice  girl  who 
would  mother  the  child  and  give  her  some  brothers  and 
sisters  to  play  with." 

He  stiffened  perceptibly. 

"I  shall  never  marry,"  he  said  shortly.  Her  eyebrows 
rose  the  fraction  of  an  inch  but  she  bit  back  the  answer 
that  rose  to  her  lips. 

"Never  —  is  a  long  day,"  she  said  lightly.  "The 
Cravens  are  an  old  family,  Barry.  One  has  one's  obliga- 
tions. " 

He  did  not  reply  and  she  changed  the  conversation 
hastily.  She  had  a  horror  of  forcing  a  confidence. 

"Remains  —  Mary,"  she  said,  with  the  air  of  propos- 
ing a  final  expedient.  Craven's  tense  face  relaxed. 

"Mary  had  also  occurred  to  me,"  he  admitted  with 
an  eagerness  that  was  almost  pathetic. 

Miss  Craven  grunted  and  clutched  at  her  hair. 

"Mary!"  she  repeated  with  a  chuckle,  "Mary,  who 
has  gone  through  life  with  Wesley's  sermons  under  her 
arm  —  and  a  child  out  of  a  Paris  convent!  There  are 
certainly  elements  of  humour  in  the  idea.  But  I  must 
have  some  details.  Who  was  this  Locke  person?" 

When  Craven  had  told  her  all  he  knew  she  stood  quite 
still  for  a  long  while,  rolling  a  cigarette  tube  between 
her  firm  hands. 

"Dissolute  English  father  —  and  Spanish  mother  of 
doubtful  morals.  My  poor  Barry,  your  hands  will  be 
full." 

"  Our  hands, "  he  corrected. 

"  Our  hands !  Good  heavens,  the  bare  idea  terrifies  me ! " 
She  shrugged  tragically  and  was  dumb  until  Mary  came 
to  announce  lunch. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  59 

Across  the  table  she  studied  her  nephew  with  an  atten- 
tion that  she  was  careful  to  conceal.  She  was  used  to 
his  frequent  coming  and  going.  Since  the  death  of  his 
mother  he  had  travelled  continually  and  she  was  accus- 
tomed to  his  appearing  more  or  less  unexpectedly,  at 
longer  or  shorter  intervals.  They  had  always  been  great 
friends,  and  it  was  to  her  house  in  London  that  he  invari- 
ably went  first  on  returning  to  England  —  sure  of  his 
welcome,  sure  of  himself,  gay,  easy-going  and  debonair. 
She  was  deeply  attached  to  him.  But,  with  something 
akin  to  terror,  she  had  watched  the  likeness  to  the  older 
Barry  Craven  growing  from  year  to  year,  fearful  lest 
the  moral  downfall  of  the  father  might  repeat  itself 
in  the  son.  The  temptation  to  speak  frankly,  to  warn, 
had  been  great.  Natural  dislike  of  interference,  and 
a  promise  given  reluctantly  to  her  dying  sister-in-law, 
had  kept  her  silent.  She  had  loved  the  tall  beautiful 
woman  who  had  been  her  brother's  wife  and  a  promise 
made  to  her  was  sacred  —  though  she  had  often  doubted 
the  wisdom  of  a  silence  that  might  prove  an  incalculable 
danger.  She  respected  the  fine  loyalty  that  demanded 
such  a  promise,  but  her  own  views  were  more  compre- 
hensive. She  was  strong  enough  to  hold  opinions  that 
were  contrary  to  accepted  traditions.  She  admitted  a 
loyalty  due  to  the  dead,  she  was  also  acutely  conscious 
of  a  loyalty  due  to  the  living.  A  few  minutes  before 
when  Miss  Craven  had,  somewhat  shamefacedly,  owned 
to  a  love  of  the  family  to  which  they  belonged  she  had 
but  faintly  expressed  her  passionate  attachment  thereto. 
Pride  of  race  was  hers  to  an  unusual  degree.  All  that 
was  best  and  noblest  she  craved  for  the  clan.  And  Barry 
'  was  the  last  of  the  Cravens.  Her  brother  had  failed 
her  and  dragged  her  high  ideals  in  the  dust.  Her  cour- 
age had  restored  them  to  endeavour  a  second  time.  If 
Barry  failed  her  too!  Hitherto  her  fears  had  had  no 


60  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

definite  basis.  There  had  been  no  real  ground  for  anxi- 
ety, only  a  developing  similarity  of  characteristics  that 
was  vaguely  disquieting.  But  now,  as  she  looked  at 
him,  she  realised  that  the  man  from  whom  she  had 
parted  nearly  two  years  before  was  not  the  man  who  now 
faced  her  across  the  table.  Something  had  happened — 
something  that  had  changed  him  utterly.  This  man  was 
older  by  far  more  than  the  actual  two  years.  This  was  a 
man  whom  she  hardly  recognised;  hard,  stern,  with  a 
curiously  bitter  ring  at  times  in  his  voice,  and  the  shadow 
of  a  tragedy  lying  in  the  dark  grey  eyes  that  had  changed 
so  incredibly  for  lack  of  their  habitual  ready  smile. 
There  were  lines  about  his  mouth  and  a  glint  of  grey 
in  his  hair  that  she  was  quick  to  observe.  Whatever 
had  happened  —  he  had  suffered.  That  was  written 
plainly  on  his  face.  And  unless  he  chose  to  speak  she 
was  powerless  to  help  him.  She  refused  to  intrude,  unbid- 
den, into  another's  private  concerns.  That  he  was  an 
adored  nephew,  that  the  intimacy  between  them  was 
great  made  no  difference,  the  restriction  remained  the 
same.  But  she  was  woman  enough  to  be  fiercely  jealous 
for  him.  She  resented  the  change  she  saw  —  it  was  not 
the  change  she  had  desired  but  something  far  beyond  ker 
understanding  that  left  her  with  the  feeling  that  she 
was  confronting  a  total  stranger.  But  she  was  careful 
to  hide  her  scrutiny,  and  though  her  mind  speculated 
widely  she  continued  to  chatter,  supplementing  the  home 
news  her  scanty  letters  had  afforded  and  retailing  art 
gossip  of  the  moment.  One  question  only  she  allowed 
herself.  There  had  come  a  silence.  She  broke  it 
abruptly,  leaning  forward  in  her  chair,  watching  him 
keen-eyed. 

"Have  you  been  ill  —  out  there?"  —  her  hand  fluttered 
vaguely  in  an  easterly  direction.  Craven  looked  up  in 
surprise. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  61 

"No,"  he  said  shortly,  "I  never  am  ill." 

Miss  Craven's  nod  as  she  rose  from  the  table  might 
have  been  taken  for  assent.  It  was  in  reality  satisfaction 
at  her  own  perspicacity.  She  had  not  supposed  for  one 
moment  that  he  had  been  ill  but  in  no  other  way  could 
she  express  what  she  wanted  to  know.  It  was  hi  itself 
an  innocuous  and  natural  remark,  but  the  sudden  gloom 
that  fell  on  him  warned  her  that  her  ingenuity  was,  per- 
haps, not  so  great  as  she  imagined. 

"Triple  idiot!"  she  reflected  wrathfully,  as  she  poured 
out  coffee,  "you  had  better  have  held  your  tongue," 
and  she  set  herself  to  charm  away  the  shadow  from 
his  face  and  dispel  any  suspicion  he  might  have  formed 
of  her  desire  to  probe  into  his  affairs.  She  had  an  uncom- 
mon personality  and  could  talk  cleverly  and  well  when 
she  chose.  And  today  she  did  choose,  exerting  all  her 
wit  to  combat  the  taciturn  fit  that  emphasized  so  forci- 
bly the  change  in  him.  But  though  he  listened  with 
apparent  attention  his  mind  was  very  obviously  else- 
where, and  he  sat  staring  into  the  fire,  mechanically  flick- 
ing ash  from  his  cigarette.  Conversation  languished  and 
at  length  Miss  Craven  gave  it  up,  with  a  wry  face,  and 
sat  also  silent,  drumming  with  her  fingers  on  the  arm 
of  the  chair.  Her  thoughts,  in  quest  of  his,  wandered 
far  away  until  the  sudden  ringing  of  the  telephone  beside 
her  made  her  jump  violently. 

She  answered  the  call,  then  handed  the  receiver  to 
Craven. 

"Your  heathen,"  she  remarked  dryly. 

Though  the  least  insular  of  women  she  had  never 
grown  accustomed  to  the  Japanese  valet.  He  turned 
from  the  telephone  with  a  look  of  mingled  embarrass- 
ment and  relief. 

"I  sent  a  message  to  the  convent  this  morning. 
Yoshio  has  just  given  me  the  answer.  The  Mother 


62          •  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

Superior  will  see  me  this  afternoon."  He  endeavoured 
to  make  his  voice  indifferent,  pulling  down  his  waistcoat 
and  picking  a  minute  thread  from  off  his  coat  sleeve. 
Miss  Craven's  mouth  twitched  at  the  evident  signs  of 
nervousness  while  she  glanced  at  him  narrowly.  Prompt 
action  in  the  matter  of  an  uncongenial  duty  had  not 
hitherto  been  a  conspicuous  trait  in  his  character. 

"You  are  certainly  not  letting  the  grass  grow  under 
your  feet. " 

He  jerked  his  head  impatiently. 

"Waiting  will  not  make  the  job  more  pleasant,"  he 
shrugged.  "I  will  see  the  child  at  once  and  arrange  for 
her  removal  as  soon  as  possible. " 

Miss  Craven  eyed  him  from  head  to  foot  with  a  grim 
smile  that  changed  to  a  whole-hearted  laugh  of  amuse- 
ment. 

"It's  a  pity  you  have  so  much  money,  Barry,  you 
would  make  your  fortune  as  a  model.  You  are  too  crim- 
inally good  looking  to  go  fluttering  into  convents." 

A  ghost  of  the  old  smile  flickered  in  his  eyes. 

"Come  and  chaperon  me,  Aunt  Caro. " 

She  shook  her  head  laughingly. 

"Thank  you  —  no.  There  are  limits.  I  draw  the  line 
at  convents.  Go  and  get  it  over,  and  if  the  child  is  pre- 
sentable you  can  bring  her  back  to  tea.  I  gather  that 
Mary  is  anticipating  a  complete  failure  on  our  part  to 
sustain  the  situation  and  is  prepared  to  deputise.  She 
has  already  ransacked  An  Paradis  Des  Enfants  for  suitable 
bribes  wherewith  to  beguile  her  infantile  affection.  I 
understand  that  there  was  a  lively  scene  over  the  pur- 
chase of  a  doll,  the  cost  of  which  —  clad  only  in  its  birth- 
day dress  —  was  reported  to  me  as  'a  fair  affront.' 
Even  after  all  these  years  Mary  jibs  at  Continental 
prices.  It  is  her  way  of  keeping  up  the  prestige  of  the 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  63 

British  Empire,  bless  her.    An  overcharge,  in  her  opin- 
ion, is  a  deliberate  twist  of  the  lion's  tail." 

In  the  taxi  he  looked  through  the  correspondence  he 
had  received  that  morning  for  the  lawyer's  letter  that 
would  establish  his  claim  to  John  Locke's  child.  Then 
he  leaned  back  and  lit  a  cigarette.  He  had  an  absurd 
feeling  of  nervousness  and  cursed  Locke  a  dozen  times 
before  he  reached  the  convent.  He  was  embarrassed 
with  the  awkward  situation  in  which  he  found  himself  — 
just  how  awkward  he  seemed  only  now  fully  to  appre- 
ciate. The  more  he  thought  of  it,  the  less  he  liked  it. 
The  coming  interview  with  the  Mother  Superior  was  not 
the  least  of  his  troubles.  The  promise  of  the  morning 
had  not  been  maintained,  overhead  the  sky  was  leaden, 
and  a  high  wind  drove  rain  in  sharp  splashes  against  the 
glass  of  the  cab.  The  pavements  were  running  with 
water  and  the  leafless  trees  in  the  avenues  swayed  and 
creaked  dismally.  The  appearance  of  the  streets  was 
chill  and  depressing.  Craven  shivered.  He  thought  of 
the  warmth  and  sunshine  that  he  had  left  in  Japan. 
The  dreariness  of  the  present  outlook  contrasted  suffi- 
ciently with  the  gay  smiling  landscape,  the  riotous  wealth 
of  colour,  and  the  scent-laden  air  of  the  land  of  his  recol- 
lections. A  feeling  almost  of  nostalgia  came  to  him. 
But  with  the  thought  came  also  a  vision  —  a  little  still 
body  lying  on  silken  cushions;  a  small  pale  face  with 
fast  shut  eyes,  the  long  lashes  a  dusky  fringe  against 
the  ice-cold  cheek.  The  vision  was  terribly  distinct, 
horribly  real  —  not  a  recollection  only,  as  on  the  morning 
that  he  had  found  her  dead  —  and  he  waited,  with  the 
sweat  pouring  down  his  face,  for  the  closed  eyes  to  open 
and  reveal  the  agony  he  had  read  in  them  that  night, 
when  he  had  torn  her  clinging  hands  away  and  left  her. 
The  faint  aroma  of  the  perfume  she  had  used  was  hi 
his  nostrils,  choking  him.  The  slender  limbs  seemed  to 


C4  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

pulsate  into  life,  the  little  breasts  to  stir  perceptibly,  the 
parted  lips  to  tremble.    He  could  not  define  the  actual 
moment  of  the  change  but,  as  he  bent  forward,  with 
hands  close  gripped,  all  at  once  he  found  himself  looking 
straight  into  the  tortured  grey  eyes  —  for  a  second  only. 
Then  the  vision  faded,  and  he  was  leaning  back  in  the 
cab  wiping  the  moisture  from  his  forehead.    God,  would 
it  never  leave  him!    It  haunted  him.    In  the  big  bunga- 
low on  the  Bluff;  rising  from  the  sea  as  he  leaned  on  the 
steamer  rail;  during  the  long  nights  on  the  ship  as  he 
lay  sleepless  in  the  narrow  brass  cot;   last  night  in  the 
crowded  railway  carriage  —  then  it  had  been  so  vivid 
that  he  had  held  his  breath  and  glanced  around  stealth- 
ily with  hunted  eyes  at  his  fellow  passengers  looking 
for  the  horrified  faces  that  would  tell  him  that  they 
also  saw  what  he  could  see.    He  never  knew  how  long  it 
lasted,  minutes  or  seconds,  holding  him  rigid  until  it 
passed  to  leave  him  bathed  in  perspiration.    Environ- 
ment seemed  to  make  no  difference.    It  came  as  readily 
in  a  crowd  as  when  he  was  alone.   He  lived  in  perpetual 
dread  of  betraying  his  obsession.    Once  only  it  had  hap- 
pened —  in  the  bungalow,  the  night  before  he  left  Japan, 
and  his  involuntary  cry  had  brought  the  watchful  valet. 
And  as  he  crossed  the  room  Craven  had  distinctly  seen 
him  pass  through  the  little  recumbent  figure  and,  with 
blazing  eyes,   had   dragged   him   roughly   to   one   side, 
pointing  and  muttering  incoherently.    And  Yoshio  had 
seemed  to  understand.    Sceptical  as  he  was  about  the 
supernatural,  at  first  Craven's  doubt  had  been  rudely 
shaken;  but  with  the  steadying  of  his  nerves  had  come 
the  conviction  that  the  vision  was  inward,  though  at  the 
moment  so  real  that  often  his  confidence  momentarily 
wavered,  as  last  night  in  the  tram.   It  came  with  no  kind 
of  regularity,  no  warning  that  might  prepare  him.    And 
recurrence  brought  no  mitigation,  no  familiarising  that 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  65 

could  temper  the  acute  horror  it  inspired.   To  what  pitch 
of  actuality  might  it  attain?    To  what  lengths  might  it 
drive  him?    He  dragged  his  thoughts  up  sharply.    To 
dwell  on  it  was  fatal,  that  way  lay  insanity.    He  set  his 
teeth  and  forced  himself  to  think  of  other  things.    There 
was  ample  material.    There  was  primarily  the  salvage  of 
a  wasted  life.    During  the  last  few  weeks  he  had  been 
forced   to   a  self-examination  that  had  been  drastically 
thorough.    The  verdict  had  been  an  adverse  one.    Per- 
sonal criticism,  once  aroused,  went  far.    The  purposeless 
life  that  he  had  led  seemed  now  an  insult  to  his  man- 
hood.   It  had  been  in  his  power  to  do  so  much  —  he  had 
actually  done  disastrously  little.     He  had  loafed  through 
life  without  a  thought  beyond  the  passing  interest  of  the 
moment.    And  even  in  the  greater  interests  of  his  life, 
travel  and  big  game,  he  had  failed  to  exert  himself  beyond 
a  mediocre  level.    He  had  travelled  far  and  shot  a  rare 
beast  or   two,  but   so   had   many  another  —  and  with 
greater  difficulties  to  contend  with  than  he  who  had 
never  wrestled  with  the  disadvantages  of  inferior  equip- 
ment and  inadequate  attendance.    Muscularly  and  con- 
stitutionally  stronger  than  the   average,   physically  he 
could  have  done  anything.    And  he  had  done  nothing  — 
nothing  that  others  had  not  done  as  well  or  even  better. 
It  was  sufficiently  humiliating.    And  the  outcome  of  his 
reflections  had  been  a  keen  desire  for  work,  hard  absorb- 
ing work,  with  the  hope  that  bodily  fatigue  might  in 
some  measure  afford  mental  alleviation.    It  did  not  even 
need  finding.    With  a  certain  shame  he  admitted  the 
fact.   It  had  waited  for  him  any  time  these  last  ten  years 
in  his  own  home.    The  responsibility  of  great  possessions 
was  his.    And  he  had  shirked.    He  had  evaded  the  duty 
he  owed  to  a  trust  he  had  inherited.    It  was  a  new   view 
of  his  position  that  recent  thought  had  awakened.     It 
was  still  not  too  late.    He  would  go  back  like  the  prodi- 


0C  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

gal  —  not  to  eat  the  fatted  calf,  but  to  sit  at  the  feet  of 
Peters  and  learn  from  him  the  secret  of  successful  estate 
management. 

For  thirty  years  Peter  Peters  had  ruled  the  Craven 
properties,  and  they  were  all  his  life.    For  the  last  ten 
years  he  had  never  ceased  urging  his  employer  to  assume 
the  reins  of  government  himself.     His  entreaties,  pro- 
testations and  threats  of  resignation  had  been  unheeded. 
Craven  felt  sure  that  he  would  never  relinquish  his  post, 
he  had  grown  into  the  soil  and  was  as  firmly  fixed  a» 
the  Towers  itself.    He  was  an  institution  in  the  county, 
a  personality  on  the  bench.    He  ruled  his  own  domains 
with  a  kindly  but  absolute   autocracy  which  succeeded 
perfectly  on  the  Craven  estates  and  was  the  envy  of 
other  agents,  who  had  not  his  ability  to  do  likewise. 
Well  born,  original  and  fearless  he  was  popular  in  castle 
and  in  cottage,  and  his  advice  was  respected  by  all.    He 
neither  sought  nor  abused  a,  confidence,  and  in  conse- 
quence was  the  depository  of  most  of  the  secrets  of  the 
countryside.    To  his  sympathetic  ears  came  both  grave 
offences  and  minor  indiscretions,  as  to  a  kindly  safety- 
valve  who  advised  and  helped  —  and  was  subsequently 
silent.    His  exoneration  was  considered  final.     "I  con- 
fessed to  Peter"  became  a  recognised  formula,  instituted 
by  a  giddy  young  Marchioness  at  the  north  end  of  the 
county,  whose   cousin  he  we  3.     And   there,  invariably, 
the  matter  ended.   And  for  Craven  it  was  the  one  bright 
spot  in  the  darkness  before  him.    Life  was  going  to  be 
hell  —  but  there  would  always  be  Peter. 

At  the  Convent  gates  the  taxi  skidded  badly  at  the 
suddenly  applied  brakes,  and  then  backed  jerkily  into 
position.  Craven  felt  an  overwhelming  inclination  to 
take  to  his  heels.  The  portress  who  admitted  him  had 
evidently  received  orders,  for  she  silently  conducted 
him  to  a  waiting  room  and  left  him  alone.  It  was 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  «7 

•parsely  furnished  but  had  on  the  walls  some  fine  old 
rosewood  panelling.  The  narrow  heavily  leaded  windows 
overlooked  a  paved  quadrangle,  glistening  with  moisture. 
For  a  few  moments  the  rain  had  ceased  but  drops  still 
pattered  sharply  on  to  the  flagstones  from  the  branches 
of  two  large  chestnut  trees.  The  outlook  was  melancholy 
and  he  turned  from  the  window,  shivering.  But  the  chill 
austere  room  was  hardly  more  inspiring.  The  atmos- 
phere was  strange  to  him.  It  was  a  world  apart  from 
anything  that  had  ever  touched  him.  He  marvelled 
suddenly  at  the  countless  lives  living  out  their  allotted 
span  in  the  confined  area  of  these  and  similar  walls. 
Surely  all  could  not  submit  willingly  to  such  a  crushing 
captivity?  Some  must  agonize  and  spend  their  strength 
unavailingly,  like  birds  beating  their  wings  against  the 
bars  of  a  cage  for  freedom.  To  the  man  who  had  roamed 
through  all  the  continents  of  the  world  this  forced  inac- 
tivity seemed  appalling  —  stultifying.  The  hampering 
of  personal  freedom,  the  forcing  of  independent  minds 
into  one  narrow  prescribed  channel  that  admitted  of  no 
individual  expansion,  the  waste  of  material  and  the 
fettering  of  intellects,  that  were  heaven-sent  gifts  to  be 
put  out  to  usury  and  not  shrouded  away  in  a  napkin, 
revolted  him.  The  conventual  system  was  to  him  a  sur- 
vival of  medievalism,  a  relic  of  the  dark  ages;  the  last 
refuge  of  the  shirkers  of  the  world.  The  communities 
themselves,  if  he  had  thought  of  them  at  all,  had  been 
regarded  as  a  whole.  He  had  never  troubled  to  consider 
them  as  composed  of  single  individuals.  Today  he 
thought  of  them  as  separate  human  beings  and  his  intol- 
erance increased.  An  indefinite  distaste  never  seriously 
considered  seemed,  during  the  few  moments  in  the  bare 
waiting  room,  to  have  grown  suddenly  into  active  dis- 
like. He  was  wholly  out  of  sympathy  with  his  sur- 
roundings, impatient  of  the  necessity  that  brought  him 


68  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

into  contact  with  what  he  would  have  chosen  to  avoid. 
He  looked  about  with  eyes  grown  hard  and  contemp- 
tuous. The  very  building  seemed  to  be  the  embodi- 
ment of  retrogression  and  blind  superstition.  He  was 
filled  with  antagonism.  His  face  was  grim  and  his  figure 
drawn  up  stiffly  to  its  full  height  when  the  door  opened 
to  admit  the  Mother  Superior.  For  a  moment  she  hesi- 
tated, a  faint  look  of  surprise  coming  into  her  face.  And 
no  antagonism,  however  intolerant,  could  have  braved 
her  gentle  dignity.  "It  is  —  Monsieur  Craven?"  she 
asked,  a  perceptible  interrogation  in  her  soft  voice. 

She  took  the  letters  he  gave  her  and  read  them  care- 
fully —  pausing  once  or  twice  as  if  searching  for  the  cor- 
rect translation  of  a  word  —  then  handed  them  back  to 
him  in  silence.  She  looked  at  him  again,  frankly,  with 
no  attempt  to  disguise  her  scrutiny,  and  the  perplexity 
in  her  eyes  grew  greater.  One  small  white  hand  slid  to 
the  crucifix  hanging  on  her  breast,  as  if  seeking  aid  from 
the  familiar  symbol,  and  Craven  saw  that  her  fingers 
were  trembling.  A  faint  flush  rose  in  her  face. 

"Monsieur  is  perhaps  married,  or  —  happily  —  he  has 
a  mother?"  she  asked  at  last,  and  the  flush  deepened  as 
she  looked  up  at  the  big  man  standing  before  her.  She 
made  a  little  gesture  of  embarrassment  but  her  eyes  did 
not  waver.  They  would  not,  he  thought  with  sudden 
intuition.  For  he  realised  that  it  was  one  of  his  own 
order  who  confronted  him.  It  was  not  what  he  had 
anticipated.  The  Mother  Superior's  low  voice  continu- 
ing in  gentle  explanation  broke  into  his  thoughts. 

"Monsieur  will  forgive  that  I  catechise  him  thus  but 
I  had  expected  one  —  much  older. "  Her  distress  was 
obvious.  And  Craven  divined  that  as  a  prospective 
guardian  he  fell  short  of  expectation.  And  yet,  his  lack 
of  years  was  apparently  to  her  the  only  drawback.  His 
lack  of  years  —  Good  God,  and  he  felt  so  old!  His  youth 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  69 

was  a  disadvantage  that  counted  for  nothing  in  the 
present  instance.  If  she  could  know  the  truth,  if  the 
anxious  gaze  that  was  fixed  so  intently  on  him  could 
look  into  his  heart  with  understanding,  he  knew  that  she 
would  shrink  from  him  as  from  a  vile  contamination. 

He  conceived  the  horror  dawning  in  her  eyes,  the  loath- 
ing in  her  attitude,  and  seemed  to  hear  her  passionate 
protest  against  his  claim  to  the  child  who  had  been  shel- 
tered in  the  safety  of  the  community  that  he  had  despised. 
The  safety  of  the  community  —  that  had  not  before 
occurred  to  him.  For  the  first  time  he  considered  it  a 
refuge  to  those  who  there  sought  sanctuary  and  who 
were  safe-guarded  from  such  as  —  he.  He  winced,  but 
did  not  spare  himself.  The  sin  had  been  only  his.  The 
child  who  had  died  for  love  of  him  had  been  as  innocent 
of  sin  as  the  birds  who  loved  and  mated  among  the  pine 
trees  in  her  Garden  of  Enchantment.  She  had  had  no 
will  but  his.  Arrogantly  he  had  taken  her  and  she  had 
submitted  —  was  he  not  her  lord?  Before  his  shadow  fell 
across  her  path  no  blameless  soul  within  these  old  con- 
vent walls  had  been  more  pure  and  stainless  than  the 
soul  of  O  Hara  San.  It  was  the  sins  of  such  as  he  that 
drove  women  to  this  shelter  that  offered  refuge  and  con- 
solation, to  escape  from  such  as  he  they  voluntarily 
immured  themselves;  surrendering  the  purpose  of  their 
being,  seeking  in  bodily  denial  the  salvation  of  their 
souls. 

The  room  had  grown  very  dark.  A  sudden  glare  of 
light  made  Craven  realise  that  a  question  asked  was  still 
unanswered.  He  had  not,  in  his  abstraction,  been  aware 
of  any  movement.  Now  he  saw  the  Mother  Superior 
walking  leisurely  back  from  the  electric  switch  by  the 
door,  and  guessed  from  her  placid  face  that  the  interval 
had  been  momentary  and  had  passed  un-noticed.  Some 
answer  was  required  now.  He  pulled  himself  together. 


70  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

"I  am  not  married,"  his  voice  was  strained,  "and  I 
have  no  mother.  But  my  aunt  —  Miss  Craven — the 

sculptor "  he  paused  enquiringly  and  she  smiled 

reassurance. 

"Miss  Craven's  beautiful  work  is  known  to  me,"  she 
aaid  with  ready  tact  that  put  him  more  at  ease. 

"My  aunt  has,  most  kindly,  promised  to  —  to  co-oper- 
ate," he  finished  lamely. 

The  anxiety  faded  from  the  Mother  Superior's  face 
and  she  sat  down  with  ail  air  of  relief,  motioning  Craven 
to  a  chair.  But  with  a  curt  bow  he  remained  standing. 
He  had  no  wish  to  prolong  the  interview  beyond  what 
courtesy  and  business  demanded.  He  listened  with  a 
variety  of  feelings  while  the  Nun  spoke.  Her  earnest- 
ness he  could  not  fail  to  perceive,  but  it  required  a  decided 
effort  to  concentrate,  and  follow  her  soft  well  modulated 
voice. 

She  spoke  slowly,  with  feeling  that  broke  at  times  the 
tone  she  strove  to  make  dispassionate. 

"I  am  glad  for  Gillian's  sake  that  at  last,  after  all 
these  years,  there  has  come  one  who  will  be  concerned 
with  her  future.  She  has  no  vocation  for  the  conventual 
life  and  —  I  was  beginning  to  become  anxious.  For  our- 
selves, we  shall  miss  her  more  than  it  is  possible  to  say. 
She  had  been  with  us  so  long,  she  has  become  very  dear 
to  us.  I  have  dreaded  that  her  father  would  one  day 
claim  her.  She  has  been  spared  that  contamination  — 
God  forgive  me  that  I  should  speak  so. "  For  a  moment 
she  was  silent,  her  eyes  bent  on  her  hands  lying  loosely 
clasped  hi  her  lap. 

"Gillian  is  not  altogether  friendless,"  she  resumed, 
"she  will  go  to  you  with  a  little  more  knowledge  of  the 
world  than  can  be  gained  within  these  old  walls."  She 
glanced  round  the  panelled  room  with  half -sad  affec- 
tion. "She  is  popular  and  has  spent  vacations  in  the 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  71 

homes  of  some  of  her  fellow  pupils.  She  has  a  very 
decided  personality,  and  a  facility  for  attracting  affec- 
tion. She  is  sensitive  and  proud  —  passionate  even  at 
times.  She  can  be  led  but  not  driven.  I  tell  you  all  this, 
Monsieur,  not  censoriously  but  that  it  may  help  you 
in  dealing  with  a  character  that  is  extraordinarily  com- 
plex, with  a  nature  that  both  demands  and  repels  affec- 
tion, that  longs  for  and  yet  scorns  sympathy."  She 
looked  at  Craven  anxiously.  His  complete  attention 
was  claimed  at  last.  A  new  conception  of  his  unknown 
ward  was  forcing  itself  upon  him,  so  that  any  humour 
there  might  have  been  in  the  situation  died  suddenly  and 
the  difficulties  of  the  undertaking  soared.  The  Mother 
Superior  smothered  a  sigh.  His  attitude  was  baffling, 
his  expression  inscrutable.  Had  her  words  touched  him, 
had  she  said  what  was  best  for  the  welfare  of  the  girl 
who  was  so  dear  to  her,  and  whose  departure  she  felt  so 
keenly?  How  would  she  fare  at  this  man's  hands?  What 
lay  behind  his  stern  face  and  sombre  tragic  eyes?  Her 
lips  moved  in  silent  prayer,  but  when  she  spoke  her  voice 
was  serene  as  before. 

"There  is  yet  another  thing  that  I  must  speak  of. 
Gillian  has  an  unusual  gift."  A  sentence  in  Locke'* 
letter  flashed  into  Craven's  mind. 

"She  doesn't  dance?"  he  asked,  in  some  dismay. 

"Dance,  Monsieur  —  in  a  convent?"  Then  she  pitied 
his  hot  confusion  and  smiled  faintly. 

"Is  dancing  so  unusual  —  in  the  world?  No,  Gillian 
sketches  —  portraits.  Her  talent  is  real.  She  does  not 
merely  draw  a  faithful  likeness,  her  studies  are  revela- 
tions of  soul.  I  do  not  think  she  knows  herself  how  her 
effects  are  obtained,  they  grow  almost  unconsciously, 
but  they  result  always  in  the  same  strange  delineation 
of  character.  It  was  so  impossible  to  ignore  this  excep- 
tional gift  that  we  procured  for  her  the  best  teacher  ia 


72  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

Paris,  and  continued  her  lessons  even  after "  She 

stopped  abruptly  and  Craven  finished  the  broken 
sentence. 

"Even  after  the  fees  ceased,"  he  said  dryly.  "For 
how  many  years  has  my  ward  lived  on  your  charity, 
Reverend  Mother?" 

She  raised  a  protesting  hand. 

"Ah  —  charity.  It  is  hardly  the  word "  she 

fenced. 

He  took  out  a  cheque  book. 

"How  much  is  owing,  for  everything?'*  he  said 
bluntly. 

She  sought  for  a  book  in  a  bureau  standing  against 
'the  rosewood  panelling  and,  scanning  it,  gave  a  sum 
with  evident  reluctance. 

"Gillian  has  never  been  told,  but  it  is  ten  years  since 
Monsieur  Locke  paid  anything."  There  was  diffidence 
in  her  voice.  "In  an  institution  of  this  kind  we  are  com- 
pelled to  be  businesslike.  It  is  rare  that  we  can  afford 
to  make  an  exception,  though  the  temptation  is  often 
great.  The  head  and  the  heart  —  voyez,  vous,  Monsieur 
—  they  pull  in  contrary  directions."  And  she  slipped 
the  book  back  into  a  pigeon-hole  as  if  the  touch  of  it 
was  distasteful.  She  glanced  perfunctorily  at  the  cheque 
he  handed  to  her,  then  closer,  and  the  colour  rose  again 
to  her  sensitive  face. 

"But  Monsieur  has  written  treble  the  amount,"  she 
murmured. 

"Will  you  accept  the  balance,"  he  said  hurriedly, 
"in  the  name  of  my  ward,  for  any  purpose  that  you 
may  think  fit?  There  is  one  stipulation  only  —  I  do  not 
wish  her  to  know  that  there  has  been  any  monetary 
transaction  between  us."  His  voice  was  almost  curt, 
and  the  Nun  found  herself  unable  to  question  a  con- 
dition which,  though  manifestly  generous,  she  deemed 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  73 

quixotic.  She  could  only  bend  to  his  decision  with  mingled 
thankfulness  and  apprehension.  Despite  the  problem 
of  the  girl's  future  she  had  it  in  her  heart  to  wish  that 
this  singular  claimant  had  never  presented  himself. 

His  liberality  was  obvious  but .  She  locked  the  slip 

of  paper  away  in  the  bureau  with  a  feeling  of  vague  uneasi- 
ness. But  for  good  or  ill  the  matter  was  out  of  her  hands. 
She  had  said  all  that  she  could  say.  The  rest  lay  with 
God. 

"I  do  accept  it,"  she  said,  "with  all  gratitude.  It 
will  enable  us  to  carry  out  a  scheme  that  has  long  been 
our  hope.  Your  generosity  will  more  than  pave  the  way. 
I  will  send  Gillian  to  you  now. " 

She  left  him,  more  embarrassed  than  he  had  been  at 
first,  more  than  ever  dreading  the  task  before  him.  He 
waited  with  a  nervous  impatience  that  irritated  himself. 

Turning  to  the  window  he  looked  out  into  the  dusk. 
The  old  trees  in  the  courtyard  were  almost  indistinguish- 
able. The  rain  dripped  again  steadily,  splashing  the 
creeper  that  framed  the  casement.  A  few  lights  showing 
dimly  in  the  windows  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  quad- 
rangle served  only  to  intensify  the  gloom.  The  time 
dragged.  Fretfully  he  drummed  with  his  fingers  on  the 
leaded  panes,  his  ears  alert  for  any  sound  beyond  the 
closed  door.  The  echo  of  a  distant  organ  stole  into  the 
room  and  the  soft  solemn  notes  harmonised  with  the 
melancholy  pattering  of  the  raindrops  and  the  gusts  of 
wind  that  moaned  fitfully  around  the  house. 

In  a  sudden  revulsion  of  feeling  the  life  he  had  mapped 
out  for  himself  seemed  horrible  beyond  thought.  He 
could  not  bear  it.  It  would  be  tying  his  hands  and  bur- 
dening himself  with  a  responsibility  that  would  curtail 
his  freedom  and  hamper  him  beyond  endurance.  A 
great  restlessness,  a  longing  to  escape  from  the  irksome 
tie,  came  to  him.  Solitude  and  open  spaces;  unpeopled  ^ 

J 


74  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  "EAST 

nature ;  wild  desert  wastes  —  he  craved  for  them.  The 
want  was  like  a  physical  ache.  The  desert  —  he  drew  his 
breath  in  sharply  —  the  hot  shifting  sand  whispering 
under  foot,  the  fierce  noontide  sun  blazing  out  of  a  bril- 
liant sky,  the  charm  of  it!  The  fascination  of  its  false 
smiling  surface,  its  treacherous  beauty  luring  to  hidden 
perils  called  to  him  imperatively.  The  cu/se  of  Ishmael 
that  was  his  heritage  was  driving  him  as  it  had  driven 
him  many  times  before.  He  was  in-  the  grip  of  one  of 
the  revolts  against  restraint  and  civilisation  that  peri- 
odically attacked  him.  The  wander-hunger  was  in  his 
blood  —  for  generations  it  had  sent  numberless  ances- 
tors into  the  lonely  places  of  the  world,  and  against  it 
ties  of  home  were  powerless.  In  early  days  to  the  roman- 
tic glamour  of  the  newly  discovered  Americas,  later 
to  the  silence  of  the  frozen  seas  and  to  the  mysterious 
depth  of  unexplored  lands  the  Cravens  had  paid  a  heavy 
loll.  A  Craven  had  penetrated  into  the  tangled  gloom 
of  the  Amazon  forests,  and  had  never  returned.  In  the 
previous  century  two  Cravens  had  succumbed  to  the 
fascination  of  the  North  West  Passage,  another  had 
vanished  in  Central  Asia.  Barry's  grandfather  had  per- 
ished in  a  dust  storm  in  the  Sahara.  And  it  was  to  the 
North  African  desert  that  his  own  thoughts  turned  most 
longingly.  Japan  had  satisfied  him  for  a  time  —  but 
only  for  a  time.  Western  civilisation  had  there  obtruded 
too  glaringly,  and  he  had  admitted  frankly  to  himself 
that  it  was  not  Japan  but  O  Hara  San  that  kept  him 
in  Yokohama.  The  dark  courtyard  and  the  faintly 
lighted  windows  faded.  He  saw  instead  a  tiny  well- 
remembered  oasis  in  Southern  Algeria,  heard  the  cease- 
less chatter  of  Arabs,  the  shrill  squeal  of  a  stallion,  the 
peevish  grunt  of  a  camel,  and,  rising  above  all  other 
.sounds,  the  whine  of  the  tackling  above  the  well.  And 
the  smell  —  the  cloying  smell  that  goes  with  camel  cara- 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  75 

vans,  it  was  pungent!  He  flung  up  his  head  inhaling 
deeply,  then  realised  that  the  scent  that  filled  the  room 
was  not  the  acrid  smell  of  the  desert  but  the  penetrating 
odour  of  incense  filtering  in  through  the  opened  door. 
It  shut  and  he  turned  reluctantly. 

He  saw  at  first  only  a  pair  of  great  brown  eyes,  star- 
ing almost  defiantly,  set  in  a  small  pale  face,  that  looked 
paler  by  contrast  with  the  frame  of  dark  brown  hair. 
Then  his  gaze  travelled  slowly  over  the  slender  black- 
clad  figure  silhouetted  against  the  polished  panels.  His 
fear  was  substantiated.  Not  a  child  who  could  be  rele- 
gated to  nurses  and  governesses,  but  a  girl  in  the  dawn 
of  womanhood.  Passionately  he  cursed  John  Locke. 

He  felt  a  fool,  idiotically  tongue-tied.  He  had  been 
prepared  to  adopt  a  suitably  paternal  attitude  towards 
the  small  child  he  had  expected.  A  paternal  attitude  in 
connection  with  this  self-possessed  young  woman  was 
impossible,  in  fact  ludicrous.  For  the  moment  he  seemed 
unable  to  cope  with  the  situation.  It  was  the  girl  who 
spoke  first.  She  came  forward  slowly,  across  the  long 
narrow  room. 

"I  am  Gillian  Locke,  Monsieur." 


CHAPTER    IV 

ON  the  cushioned  window  seat  in  her  bedroom  at 
Craven  Towers  Gillian  Locke  sat  with  her  arms 
wrapped  round  her  knees  waiting  for  the  summons  to 
dinner.  With  Miss  Craven  and  her  guardian  she  had  left 
London  that  morning,  arriving  at  the  Towers  in  the 
afternoon,  and  she  was  tired  and  excited  with  the  events 
of  the  day.  She  leant  back  against  the  panelled  embras- 
ure, her  mind  dwelling  on  the  last  three  crowded  months 
they  had  spent  in  Paris  and  London  waiting  until  the 
house  was  redecorated  and  ready  to  receive  them.  It 
had  been  for  her  a  wonderful  experience.  The  novelty, 
the  strangeness  of  it,  left  her  breathless  with  the  feeling 
that  years,  not  weeks,  had  rushed  by.  Already  in  the 
realisation  of  the  new  life  the  convent  days  seemed 
long  ago,  the  convent  itself  to  have  receded  into  a  far 
off  past.  And  yet  there  were  times  when  she  wondered 
whether  she  was  dreaming,  whether  waking  would  be 
inevitable  and  she  would  find  herself  once  more  in  the 
old  dormitory  to  pray  passionately  that  she  might  dream 
again.  And  until  tonight  there  had  scarcely  been  time 
even  to  think,  her  days  had  been  full,  at  night  she  had 
gone  to  bed  to  sleep  in  happy  dreamlessness.  The  hotel 
bedrooms  with  their  litter  of  trunks  suggesting  imminent 
flight  had  held  no  restfulness.  To  Gillian  the  transitory 
sensation  had  strained  already  over-excited  nerves  and 
heightened  the  dreamlike  feeling  that  made  everything 
seem  unreal.  But  here,  the  visible  evidences  of  travel 
removed,  the  deep  silence  of  a  large  country  house  pene- 

76 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  77 

trating  her  mind  and  conducing  to  peace,  she  could  think 
at  last.  The  surroundings  were  helpful.  There  was 
about  the  room  an  air  of  permanence  which  the  hotel 
bedrooms  had  never  given,  an  atmosphere  of  abiding 
quiet  that  soothed  her.  She  was  sensitive  of  an  influence 
that  was  wholly  new  to  her  and  very  sweet,  that  brought 
with  it  a  feeling  of  laughter  and  tears  strangely  mingled, 
that  made  the  room  appear  as  no  other  room  had  ever 
done.  It  was  her  room,  and  it  had  welcomed  her.  It 
was  like  a  big  friendly  silent  person  offering  mute  recep- 
tion, radiating  repose.  In  a  few  hours  the  room  had 
become  intimate,  dear  to  her.  She  laughed  happily  — 
then  checked  at  a  guilty  feeling  of  treason  against  the 
grey  old  walls  in  Paris  that  had  so  long  sheltered  her. 
She  was  not  ungrateful,  all  her  life  she  would  remember 
with  gratitude  the  love  and  care  she  had  received.  But 
the  convent  had  been  prison.  Since  her  father  had  left 
her  there,  a  tiny  child,  she  had  inwardly  rebelled;  the 
life  was  abhorrent  to  her,  the  restraint  unbearable.  With 
childish  pride  she  had  hidden  her  feelings,  living  through 
a  period  of  acute  misery  with  no  hint  to  those  about  her 
of  what  she  suffered.  And  the  habit  of  suppression 
acquired  in  childhood  had  grown  with  her  own  develop- 
ment. As  the  years  passed  the  limitations  of  the  con- 
vent became  more  perceptible.  She  felt  its  cramping 
influence  to  the  full,  as  if  the  walls  were  closing  in  to 
suffocate  her,  to  bury  her  alive  before  she  had  ever  known 
a  fuller  freer  life.  She  had  longed  for  expansion  —  ideas 
she  could  not  formulate,  desires  she  could  not  express, 
crowded,  jostled  in  her  brain.  She  wanted  a  wider  out- 
look on  life  than  the  narrow  convent  windows  offered. 
Brief  excursions  into  the  world  to  the  homes  of  her 
friends  had  filled  her  with  a  yearning  for  freedom  and 
for  independence,  for  a  greater  range  of  thought  and 
action.  Her  artistic  studies  had  served  to  foster  an  un- 


78  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

rest  she  struggled  against  bravely  and  to  conceal  which 
she  became  daily  more  self-contained.  Her  reserve  was 
like  a  barrier  about  her.  She  was  sweet  and  gentle  to 
all  around  her,  but  a  little  aloof  and  very  silent.  To  the 
other  girls  she  had  been  a  heroine  of  romance,  puzzling 
mystery  surrounded  her;  to  the  Nuns  an  enigma.  The 
Mother  Superior,  alone,  had  arrived  at  a  partial  under- 
standing, more  than  that  even  she  could  not  accomplish. 
Gillian  loved  her,  but  her  reserve  was  stronger  than  her 
love.  Sitting  now  in  the  dainty  English  bedroom,  revel- 
ling in  the  warm  beauty  of  the  exquisite  landscape  that, 
mellowed  in  the  evening  light,  lay  spread  out  beneath 
her  eyes,  Gillian  thought  a  little  sadly  of  her  parting 
with  the  Reverend  Mother.  She  had  tried  to  hide  the 
happiness  that  the  strange  feeling  of  freedom  gave  her, 
to  smother  any  look  or  word  that  might  wound  the  gentle 
sensibility  of  the  frail  robed  woman  whose  eyes  were 
sad  at  the  approaching  separation.  Her  conscience  smote 
her  that  her  own  heart  held  no  sadness.  She  had  said 
very  little,  nothing  of  the  new  life  that  lay  ahead  of  her. 
She  hid  her  hopes  of  the  future  as  jealously  as  she  had 
hidden  her  longings  in  the  past,  and  she  had  left  the 
convent  as  silently  as  she  had  lived  in  it.  She  had  driven 
back  to  the  hotel  with  a  sense  of  relief  predominating 
that  it  was  all  over,  breathing  deeply  with  a  sigh  of 
relaxed  tension.  It  seemed  to  her  then  as  if  she  had 
learned  to  breathe  only  within  the  last  few  days,  as  if 
the  air  itself  was  lighter,  more  exhilarating. 

From  the  convent  her  mind  went  back  to  earlier  days. 
She  thought  of  her  father,  the  handsome  dissolute  man 
whose  image  had  grown  dim  with  years.  As  a  tiny  child 
she  had  loved  him  passionately,  the  central  figure  of  her 
chequered  and  wandering  little  life  —  father  and  mother 
in  one,  playmate  and  hero.  Her  recollection  seemed  to 
be  of  constant  travelling;  of  long  hours  spent  in  railway 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  79 

trains;  of  arrivals  at  strange  places  in  the  dark  night;  of 
departures  in  the  early  dawn,  half  awake  —  but  always 
happy  so  long  as  the  familiar  arms  held  her  weary  little 
body  and  there  was  the  shabby  old  coat  on  which  to 
pillow  her  brown  curls.  A  jumbled  remembrance  of 
towns  and  country  villages;  of  kind  unknown  women 
who  looked  compassionate  and  murmured  over  her  in  a 
dozen  different  languages.  It  had  all  been  a  medley  of 
impressions  and  experiences  —  everything  transient,  noth- 
ing lasting,  but  the  big  untidy  man  who  was  her  ah. 
And  then  the  convent.  For  a  few  years  John  Locke  had 
reappeared  at  irregular  intervals,  and  on  the  memory  of 
those  brief  visits  she  had  lived  until  he  came  again.  Then 
he  had  ceased  to  come  and  his  letters,  grown  short  and 
few,  full  of  vague  promises  —  unsatisfying  —  meagre, 
•had  stopped  abruptly.  At  first  she  had  refused  to  admit 
to  herself  that  he  had  forgotten,  that  she  could  mean  so 
little  to  him,  that  he  would  deliberately  put  her  out  of 
his  life.  She  had  waited,  excusing,  trusting,  until,  heart- 
sick with  deferred  hope,  she  had  come  to  think  of  him 
as  dead.  She  was  old  enough  then  to  realise  her  positiop 
and  in  spite  of  the  love  and  consideration  surrounding 
her  she  had  learned  misery.  Her  popularity  even  was 
a  source  of  torment,  for  in  the  happy  homes  of  her  friends 
she  had  felt  more  cruelly  her  own  destitute  loneliness. 

When  the  lawyer's  letter  had  come  enclosing  a  few 
scrawled  lines  written  by  her  dying  father  she  had  felt 
that  life  could  hold  no  more  bitterness.    She  had  wor- 
shipped him  —  and  he  had  abandoned  her  callously.   She 
was  bone  of  his  bone  and  he  had  made  no  effort  even  for 
his  own  flesh.    He  had  thrown  her  a  burden  on  the  con- 
vent that  sheltered  her  so  willingly  only  for  want  of  will 
power  to   conquer  the   weakness   that  had   devitalised 
brain  and  body.    The  thought  crushed  her.    As  she  read 
his  confession,  full  of  tardy  remorse,  her  proud  heart 


80  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

had  been  sick  with  humiliation.  She  groped  blindly 
through  a  sea  of  despair,  her  faith  broken,  her  trust  gone. 
She  hid  her  sorrow  and  her  shame,  fulfilling  her  usual 
tasks,  following  the  ordinary  routine  —  a  little  more 
silent,  a  little  more  reserved  —  her  eyes  alone  betraying 
the  storm  that  was  overwhelming  her.  She  had  loved 
him  so  dearly  —  that  was  the  sting.  She  had  guarded  her 
memory  of  him  so  tenderly,  weaving  a  thousand  extrava- 
gant tales  about  him,  pinnacling  him  above  all  men, 
her  hero,  her  knight,  her  preux  chevalier.  And  now  she 
realised  that  her  memory  was  no  memory,  that  she  had 
built  up  a  fantastic  figure  of  romance  whose  origin  rested 
on  nothing  tangible,  whose  elevation  had  been  so  lofty 
that  his  overthrow  was  demolition.  Her  god  had  feet 
of  clay.  Her  superman  was  nothing.  Ah1  that  she  had 
ever  had,  memory  that  was  delusion,  was  taken  from 
her.  Woken  abruptly  to  the  brutal  truth  she  felt  that 
she  had  nothing  left  to  cling  to  —  a  loneliness  far  greater 
than  she  had  known  before.  Then  gradually  her  own 
honesty  compelled  her  to  admit  her  fantasy.  The  dream 
man  she  had  evolved  had  been  of  her  own  making,  the 
virtues  with  which  she  had  endowed  him  bred  of  her 
own  imagination.  Of  the  real  man  she  knew  nothing, 
and  for  the  real  man  there  dawned  slowly  —  though 
love  for  him  had  died  —  pity.  It  came  to  her,  passion- 
ately endeavouring  to  understand,  that  in  the  sheltered 
life  she  led  she  had  no  knowledge  of  the  temptations 
that  beset  a  man  outside  in  the  great  world.  Dimly 
she  realised  that  some  win  out  -*-  and  some  go  under. 
He  had  failed.  And  it  seemed  to  her  that  on  her  had 
fallen  his  debt.  She  must  take  the  place  he  had  forfeited 
in  the  universe,  she  must  succeed  where  he  had  failed. 
Her  strength  must  rise  out  of  his  weakness.  His  honour 
was  hers  to  re-establish,  given  the  opportunity.  And  the 
opportunity  had  been  given.  She  had  waited  for  the 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  81 

coming  of  her  unknown  guardian  with  a  feeling  of  dull 
revolt   against   the   degradation   of   being   handed   over 
inexorably  to  the  disposal    and  charity  of  a  stranger. 
Though  she  had  not  been  told  she  had  guessed,  years 
ago,  that  money  for  her  maintenance  was  wanting.    The 
kindly  deception  of  the  Mother  Superior  had  been  ineffec- 
tual.   Gillian  knew  she  was  a  pauper.    The  charity  of 
the  convent  school  had  been  hard  to  bear.    The  charity 
of  a  stranger  would  be  harder.    She  writhed  with  the 
humiliation   of  it.     She  was  nineteen  —  for  two  years 
she  must  go  and  be  and  endure  at  the  whim  of  an  unknown. 
And  what  would  he  be  like,  this  man  into  whose  hands 
her  father  had  thrust  her!    What  choice  would  John 
Locke  be  capable  of  making  —  what  love  had  he  shown 
during  these  last  years  that  he  should  choose  carefully 
and  well?   From  among  what  class  of  man,  of  the  society 
into  which  he  had  sunk,  would  he  select  one  to  give 
his  daughter?    He  had  written  of  "my  old  friend,  Barry 
Craven."     The    name    conveyed    nothing  —  the    adjec- 
tive admitted  of  two  interpretations.    Which?    Day  and 
night  she  was  haunted  with  visions  of  old  men  —  recol- 
lections of  faces  seen  when  driving  with  her  friends  or 
visiting  their  homes;  old  men  who  had  interested  her, 
old  men  from  whom  she  had  instinctively  shrunk.    What 
type  of  man  was  it  that  was  coming  for  her?    There  were 
times  when  her  courage  deserted  her  and  the  constantly 
recurring  question  made  her  nearly  mad  with  fear.    She 
was  like  a  wild  creature  caught  in  a  trap,  listening  to  the 
feet  of  the  keeper  nearing  —  nearing.    She  had  longed  for 
the  time  when  she  could  leave  the  Convent,  she  clung  to 
it  now  with  dread  at  the  thought  of  the  future.    The 
London  lawyer  had  written  that  Mr.  Craven  was  return- 
ing from  Japan  to  assume  his  guardianship,  and  she  had 
traced  his  route  with  growing  fear  as  the  days  slipped  by 
—  the  keeper's  tread  coming  closer  and  closer.    She  had 


82  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

masked  the  terror  the  thought  of  him  inspired,  preserving 
an  outward  apathy  that  seemed  to  imply  complete  indif- 
ference. And  in  the  end  he  had  come  sooner  than  she 
expected,  for  they  thought  he  would  go  first  to  London. 
One  morning  she  had  learned  he  was  in  Paris,  that  very 
afternoon  she  would  know  her  fate.  The  day  had  been 
interminable.  During  his  interview  with  the  Mother 
Superior  she  had  paced  the  room  where  she  was  waiting 
as  it  seemed  for  hours,  her  nerves  at  breaking  point. 
When  the  Reverend  Mother  came  back  she  could  have 
shrieked  aloud  and  her  desperate  eyes  failed  to  interpret 
the  expression  on  the  Nun's  face;  she  tried  to  speak,  a 
husky  whisper  that  died  away  inarticulately.  Faintly 
she  heard  the  gentle  words  of  encouragement  and  with 
an  effort  of  pride  she  walked  quickly  to  the  door  of  the 
visitors'  room.  There  she  paused,  irresolute,  and  the 
low  peaceful  roll  of  the  organ  echoing  from  the  distant 
chapel  seemed  to  mock  her.  So  often  it  had  comforted, 
giving  courage  to  go  forward  —  today  its  very  peaceful- 
ness  jarred;  nerve-racked  she  was  out  of  tune  with  the 
atmosphere  of  calm  tranquillity  about  her.  She  felt  alien 
—  that  more  than  ever  she  stood  alone.  Then  pride 
flamed  afresh.  With  head  held  high  and  lips  compressed 
she  went  in.  As  he  turned  from  the  window  it  was  his 
great  height  and  broad  shoulders  that  struck  her  first  — 
men  of  his  physique  were  rare  in  France  —  and,  hi  the 
thought  of  a  moment,  the  well  cut  conventional  morning 
coat  had  seemed  absurd,  and  mentally  she  had  clothed 
his  long  limbs  in  damascened  steel.  Then  she  had  seen 
that  he  was  young,  how  young  she  could  not  guess,  but 
younger  far  than  she  had  imagined.  As  their  eyes  met 
the  sombre  tragedy  hi  his  had  hurt  her.  She  divined  a 
sorrow  before  which  her  own  paled  to  nothingness  and 
quick  pity  killed  fear.  The  sadness  of  his  face  lifted  her 
suddenly  into  full  realisation  of  her  womanhood.  Com- 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  83 

passion  rose  above  self.  Instinctively  she  knew  that  the 
interview  that  was  to  her  so  momentous  was  to  him  only 
an  embarrassing  interlude.  Shyness  remained  but  the 
terror  she  had  felt  gave  place  to  a  feeling  she  had  not 
then  understood.  As  quickly  as  possible  he  had  taken 
her  to  the  hotel,  leaving  to  his  aunt  all  explanations  that 
seemed  necessary.  And  since  then  he  had  remained  con- 
sistently in  the  background,  delegating  his  authority  to 
Miss  Craven.  But  from  the  first  his  proximity  had 
troubled  her  —  she  was  always  conscious  of  his  presence. 
Hypersensitive  from  her  convent  upbringing  she  knew 
intuitively  when  he  entered  a  room  or  left  it.  Men  were 
to  her  an  unknown  quantity;  the  few  she  had  met  — 
brothers  and  cousins  of  school  friends — had  been  viewed 
from  a  different  standpoint.  Hedged  about  with  rigid 
French  convention  there  had  been  no  chance  of  acquaint- 
ance ripening  into  friendship  —  she  had  been  merely  a 
schoolgirl  among  other  girls,  touching  only  the  fringe  of 
the  most  youthful  of  the  masculine  element  in  the  houses 
where  she  had  stayed.  She  had  been  unprepared  for 
the  change  to  the  daily  contact  with  a  man  like  Barry 
Craven.  It  ,/onld  take  time  to  accustom  herself,  to 
become  used  to  the  continual  masculine  presence. 

Miss  Craven,  to  her  nephew's  relief,  had  taken  the  shy 
pale-faced  girl  to  her  eccentric  heart  with  a  suddenness 
and  enthusiasm  that  had  surprised  herself. 

And  Gillian's  reserve  and  pride  had  been  unable  to 
withstand  the  whirlwind  little  lady.  Miss  Craven's  per- 
sonality took  a  strong  hold  on  her;  she  loved  the  woman, 
she  admired  the  artist,  and  she  was  quick  to  recognise 
the  real  feeling  and  deep  kindness  that  lay  under  brusque 
manner  and  quizzical  speeches.  She  had  good  reason. 
She  glanced  now  round  the  big  room.  Everywhere  were 
evidences  of  lavish  generosity,  showered  on  her  regard- 
less of  protest.  Gillian's  eyes  filled  slowly  with  tears. 


84  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

It  was  all  a  fairy  story,  too  wonderful  almost  to  be  true. 
Why  were  they  so  good  to  her  —  how  would  she  ever  be 
able  to  repay  the  kindness  lavished  on  her?  Her  thoughts 
were  interrupted  by  the  latest  gift  that  rose  out  of  his 
basket  with  a  sleepy  yawn  and  stretching  luxuriously 
came  and  laid  his  head  on  her  knee,  looking  up  at  her 
with  sad  brown  eyes.  She  had  always  loved  animals, 
the  possession  of  some  dog  had  been  an  ardent  desire,  and 
she  hugged  the  big  black  poodle  now  with  a  little  sob. 

"Mouston,  you  pampered  person,  have  you  ever  been 
lonely?  Can  you  imagine  what  it  is  like  to  be  made  to 
feel  that  you  belong  to  somebody  again?"  She  rubbed 
her  cheek  against  his  satiny  head,  crooning  over  him, 
the  dog  thrilling  to  her  touch  with  jerking  limbs  and 
sharp  half -stifled  whines.  It  was  her  first  experience  of 
ownership,  of  responsibility  for  a  living  creature  that  was 
dependent  on  her  and  for  which  she  was  answerable. 
And  it  was  likely  to  prove  an  arduous  responsibility.  He 
was  single-minded  and  jealous  in  his  allegiance;  Miss 
Craven  he  tolerated  indifferently,  of  Craven  he  was 
openly  suspicious.  He  followed  Gillian  like  a  shadow 
and  moped  in  her  absence,  yielding  to  Yoshio,  who  had 
charge  of  him  on  such  occasions,  a  resigned  obedience  he 
gave  to  no  other  member  of  the  household.  Through 
Mouston  Gillian  and  Yoshio  had  become  acquainted. 

Mouston's  affection  this  evening  became  over-enthu- 
siastic and  threatening  to  fragile  silks  and  laces.  Gillian 
kissed  the  top  of  his  head,  shook  solemnly  an  insistent 
paw,  and  put  him  on  one  side.  She  moved  to  the  dress- 
ing table  and  inspected  herself  critically  in  the  big 
mirror.  She  looked  with  grave  amusement.  Was  that 
Gillian  Locke?  She  wondered  did  a  butterfly  feel  more 
incongruous  when  it  shed  its  dull  grub  skin.  For  so 
many  years  she  had  worn  the  sombre  garb  of  the  con- 
vent schoolgirl,  the  change  was  still  new  enough  to 


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THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  85 

delight  and  the  natural  woman  within  her  responded  to 
the  fascination  of  pretty  clothing.  The  dark  draperies 
of  the  convent  had  palled,  she  had  craved  colour  with 
an  almost  starved  longing. 

The  general  reflection  in  the  long  glass  satisfied,  a 
more  detailed  personal  survey  raised  serious  doubts. 
She  had  never  recognised  the  grace  of  her  slender  figure, 
the  uncommon  beauty  of  her  pale  oval  face  —  other  types 
had  appealed  more,  other  colouring  attracted.  She  had 
studied  her  face  often,  disapprovingly.  Once  or  twice, 
lacking  a  model,  she  had  essayed  to  reproduce  her  own 
features.  She  had  failed  utterly.  The  faithful  por- 
traiture she  achieved  for  others  was  wanting.  She  was 
unable  to  express  in  her  own  likeness  the  almost 
startling  exposition  of  character  that  distinguished  her 
ordinary  work.  She  had  been  her  own  limitation.  Her 
failure  had  puzzled  her,  causing  a  searching  mental 
inquiry.  She  had  no  knowledge  herself  of  how  her  special 
gift  took  form,  the  work  grew  involuntarily  under  her 
hand.  She  was  aware  of  no  definite  impression  received, 
no  attempt  at  soul  analysis.  Vaguely  she  supposed  that 
in  some  subtle  mysterious  way  the  character  of  her  sitter 
communicated  itself,  influencing  her;  in  fact  her  best 
work  had  often  had  the  least  care  bestowed  upon  it. 
Did  her  inability  to  transfer  to  canvas  a  living  copy  of 
her  own  face  argue  that  she  herself  was  without  charac- 
ter—  had  she  failed  because  there  was  in  truth  nothing 
to  delineate?  Or  was  it  because  she  sought  to  see  some- 
thing unreal  —  sought  to  control  a  purely  inherent 
impulse?  It  was  a  problem  she  had  never  solved. 

She  looked  now  at  the  mirrored  figure  with  her  usual 
disapproval,  great  brown  eyes  scowling  back  at  her  from 
the  glass,  then  made  a  little  obliterating  movement  with 
her  hand  and  shook  her  head.  Appearance  had  never 
mattered  before,  but  now  she  wanted  so  much  to  please 


86  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

—  to  be  a  credit  to  the  interest  shown,  to  repay  the  time 
and  money  spent  upon  her.  Her  eyes  grew  wistful  as 
she  leant  nearer  to  see  if  there  were  any  tell-tale  traces 
of  tears,  then  danced  with  sudden  amusement  as  she 
picked  up  a  powder  puff  and  dabbed  tentatively. 

"Oh,  Gillian  Locke,  what  would  the  Reverend  Mother 
say!"  she  murmured,  and  laughed. 

The  poodle,  jealous  for  attention,  leaped  on  to  a  chair 
beside  her,  his  paws  on  the  plate  glass  slab  scattering 
brushes  and  bottles,  and  still  laughing  she  smothered  his 
damp  eager  nose  with  powder  until  he  sneezed  disgusted 
protest. 

With  a  conciliatory  caress  she  left  him  to  disarrange 
the  dressing  table  further,  and  went  back  to  the  window. 
Beneath  her  lawns  extended  to  a  wide  terrace,  stone 
balustraded,  from  the  centre  of  which  a  long  flight  of 
steps  led  down  to  a  formal  rose  garden  sheltered  by  a 
high  yew  hedge  and  backed  by  a  little  copse  beyond 
which  the  heavily  timbered  park  stretched  indefinitely  in 
the  evening  light.  The  sense  of  space  fascinated  her. 
She  had  always  longed  for  unimpeded  views,  for  the  still- 
ness of  the  country.  On  the  smooth  shaven  lawns  great 
trees  were  set  like  sentinels  about  the  house;  fancifully 
she  thought  of  them  as  living  vigilant  keepers  maintain- 
ing for  centuries  a  perpetual  guard  —  and  smiled  at  her 
childish  imagination.  Her  pleasure  in  the  prospect 
deepened.  Already  the  charm  of  the  Towers  had  taken 
hold  of  her,  from  the  first  moment  she  had  loved  it. 
Throughout  the  long  railway  journey  and  during  the 
five  mile  drive  from  the  station,  she  had  anticipated, 
and  the  actuality  had  outstripped  her  anticipation.  The 
beauty  of  the  park,  the  herds  of  grazing  deer,  had  delighted 
her;  the  old  grey  house  itself  had  stayed  her  spell- 
bound. She  had  not  imagined  anything  half  so 
lovely,  so  impressively  enduring.  She  had  seen  nothing 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  87 

to  compare  with  its  fine  proportions,  with  the  luxury  of 
its  setting.  It  differed  utterly  from  the  French  Chateaux 
where  she  had  visited;  there  toil  obtruded,  vineyards 
and  rich  fields  of  crops  clustered  close  to  the  very  walls 
of  the  seigneur's  dwellings,  a  source  of  wealth  simply 
displayed;  here  similar  activities  were  banished  to  unseen 
regions,  and  scrupulously  kept  avenues,  close  cut  lawns 
and  immaculate  flower-beds  formed  evidence  of  con- 
stant labour  whose  results  charmed  the  eye  but  were 
materially  profitless.  The  formal  grandeur  appealed  to 
her.  She  was  not  altogether  alien,  she  reflected,  with  a 
curious  smile  —  despite  his  subsequent  downfall  John 
Locke  had  sprung  from  just  such  stock  as  the  owner  of 
this  wonderful  house.  A  sudden  panic  of  lateness  inter- 
rupted her  pleasure  and  she  turned  from  the  window, 
calling  to  the  dog.  Her  suite  opened  on  to  a  circular 
gallery  —  from  which  bedrooms  opened  —  running  round 
the  central  portion  of  the  house  and  overlooking  the  big 
square  hall  which  was  lit  from  above  by  a  lofty  glazed 
dome;  eastward  and  westward  stretched  long  rambling 
wings,  a  story  higher  than  the  main  block,  crowned  with 
the  turrets  that  gave  the  house  its  name. 

A  low  murmur  of  men's  voices  came  from  below,  and 
leaning  over  the  balustrade  she  saw  Craven  and  his 
agent  standing  talking  before  the  empty  fireplace.  Sud- 
den shyness  overcame  her;  her  guardian  was  still  for- 
midable, Peters  she  had  seen  for  the  first  time  only  a 
few  hours  ago  when  he  had  met  them  at  the  station  —  a 
short  broad-shouldered  man  inclining  to  stoutness,  with 
thick  grey  hair  and  close-pointed  beard.  To  go  down 
deliberately  to  them  seemed  impossible.  But  while  she 
hesitated  in  an  agony  of  self-consciousness  Mouston  pre- 
cipitated the  inevitable  by  dashing  on  ahead  down  the 
stairs  and  plunging  into  the  bearskin  hearthrug,  plough- 
ing the  thick  fur  with  his  muzzle  and  sneezing  wildly0 


88  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

The  sense  of  responsibility  outweighed  shyness  and  she 
hurried  after  him,  but  Peters  anticipated  her  and  already 
had  the  dog's  unwilling  head  firmly  between  his  hands. 

"What  on  earth  has  he  got  on  his  nose,  Miss  Locke?" 
he  asked,  in  a  tone  of  wonder,  but  the  keen  blue  eyes 
looking  at  her  from  under  bushy  grey  eyebrows  were 
twinkling  and  her  shyness  was  not  proof  against  his 
friendliness. 

She  dropped  to  her  knees  and  flicked  the  offended 
organ  with  a  scrap  of  lace  and  lawn. 

"Powder,"  she  said  gravely. 

"You  can  have  no  idea,"  she  added,  looking  np  sud- 
denly, "how  delightful  it  is  to  powder  your  nose  when 
you  have  been  brought  up  in  a  convent.  The  Nuns  con- 
sider it  the  height  of  depravity,"  and  she  laughed,  a 
ringing  girlish  outburst  of  amusement  that  Craven  had 
never  yet  heard.  He  looked  at  her  as  she  knelt  on  the 
rug  soothing  the  poodle's  outraged  feelings  and  smiling 
at  Peters  who  was  offering  his  own  more  adequate 
handkerchief.  That  laugh  was  a  revelation  —  in  spite  of 
her  self-possession,  of  her  reserve,  she  was  in  reality  only 
a  girl,  hardly  more  than  a  child,  but  influenced  by  her 
quiet  gravity  he  had  forgotten  the  fact. 

As  he  watched  her  a  slight  frown  gathered  on  his  face. 
It  seemed  that  Peters,  in  a  few  hours,  had  penetrated  the 
barrier  outside  which  he,  after  months,  still  remained. 
With  him  she  was  always  shyly  silent.  On  the  few  rare 
occasions  hi  Paris  and  in  London  when  he  had  found 
himself  alone  with  her  she  had  shrunk  into  herself  and 
avoided  addressing  him;  and  he  had  wondered,  irritably, 
how  much  was  natural  diffidence  and  how  much  due  to 
convent  training.  But  he  had  made  no  effort  at  further 
understanding,  for  the  past  was  always  present  domi- 
nating inclinations  and  impulses  —  perpetual  memory, 
jogging  at  his  elbow.  There  were  days  when  the  onjy 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  89 

relief  was  physical  exhaustion  and  he  disappeared  for 
hours  to  fight  his  devils  in  solitude.  And  in  any  case  he 
was  not  wanted,  it  was  better  in  every  way  for  him  to 
efface  himself.  There  was  nothing  for  him  to  do  —  thanks 
to  the  improvidence  of  John  Locke  no  business  connected 
with  the  trust.  Miss  Craven  had  taken  complete  posses- 
sion of  Gillian  and  he  held  aloof,  not  attempting  to 
establish  more  intimate  relations  with  his  ward.  But 
tonight,  with  a  fine  inconsistency,  it  piqued  him  that  she 
should  respond  so  readily  to  Peters.  He  knew  he  was  a 
fool  —  it  mattered  not  one  particle  to  him — Peters' 
magnetism  was  proverbial  —  but,  illogically,  the  frown 
persisted. 

As  if  conscious  of  his  scrutiny  Gillian  turned  and  met 
his  searching  gaze.  The  colour  flooded  her  face  and  she 
pushed  the  dog  aside  and  rose  hastily  to  her  feet.  Shy- 
ness supervened  again  and  she  was  thankful  for  the 
arrival  of  Miss  Craven,  who  was  breathless  and  apolo- 
getic. 

"Late  as  usual!  I  shall  be  late  when  the  last  trump 
sounds.  But  this  time  it  was  really  not  my  fault.  Mrs. 
Appleyard  descended  upon  me  ! — our  old  housekeeper, 
Gillian  —  and  her  tongue  has  wagged  for  a  solid  hour  by 
the  clock.  I  am  now  au  fait  with  everything  that  has 
happened  at  the  Towers  since  I  was  here  last  —  do  your 
ears  burn,  Peter?  —  metaphorically  she  has  dragged  me 
at  her  heels  from  garrets  to  cellars  and  back  to  the  gar- 
rets again.  She  is  pathetically  pleased  to  have  the  house 
open  once  more. " 

Still  talking  she  led  the  way  to  the  dining  room.  It 
was  an  immense  room,  panelled  like  most  of  the  house, 
the  table  an  oasis  on  a  desert  of  Persian  carpet,  a  huge 
fireplace  predominating,  and  some  of  the  more  valuable 
family  portraits  on  the  walls. 

As  Miss  Craven  entered  she  looked  instinctively  for  the 


90  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

portrait  of  her  brother,  which  since  his  death  had  hung  — 
following  a  family  custom  —  in  a  panel  over  the  high 
carved  mantelpiece.  But  it  had  been  removed  and  for 
it  had  been  substituted  a  beautiful  painting  of  Barry's 
mother.  She  stopped  abruptly  in  the  middle  of  a  sen- 
tence. "An  innovation?"  she  murmured  to  her  nephew, 
with  her  shrewd  eyes  on  his  face. 

"A  reparation,"  he  answered  shortly,  as  he  moved  to 
his  chair.  And  his  tone  made  any  further  comment 
impossible.  She  sat  down  thoughtfully  and  began  her 
soup  in  silence,  vaguely  disturbed  at  the  departure  from 
a  precedent  that  had  held  for  generations.  Unconven- 
tional and  ultra-modern  as  she  was  she  still  clung  to  the 
traditions  of  her  family,  and  from  time  immemorial  the 
portrait  of  the  last  reigning  Craven  had  hung  over  the 
fireplace  in  the  big  dining  room  waiting  to  give  place  to 
its  successor.  It  all  seemed  bound  up  somehow  with  the 
terrible  change  that  had  taken  place  in  him  since  his 
return  from  Japan  —  a  change  she  was  beginning  more 
and  more  to  connect  with  the  man  whose  portrait  had 
been  banished,  as  though  unworthy,  from  its  prominence. 
Unworthy  indeed  —  but  how  did  Barry  know?  What 
had  he  learned  in  the  country  that  had  had  such  a  fatal 
attraction  for  his  father?  The  old  shameful  story  she 
had  thought  buried  for  ever  seemed  rising  like  a  horrible 
phantom  from  the  grave  where  it  had  lain  so  long 
hidden. 

With  a  little  shudder  she  turned  resolutely  from  the 
painful  thoughts  that  came  crowding  in  upon  her  and 
entered  into  animated  conversation  with  Peters. 

Gillian,  content  to  be  unnoticed,  looked  about  her  with 
appreciative  interest;  the  big  room,  its  sombre,  rather 
formal  furniture  and  fine  pictures,  appealed  to  her.  The 
arrangements  were  in  perfect  harmony,  nothing  clashed 
or  jarred,  electric  lighting  was  carefully  hidden  and  only 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  91 

wax  candles  burnt  in  heavy  silver  candlesticks  on  the 
table. 

The  fascination  of  the  old  house  was  growing  every 
moment  more  insistent,  like  a  spell  laid  on  her.  She 
gave  herself  up  to  it,  to  the  odd  happiness  it  inspired. 
She  felt  it  curiously  familiar.  A  strange  feeling  came  to 
her  —  it  was  as  if  from  childhood  she  had  been  journeying 
and  now  come  home.  An  absurd  thought,  but  she  loved 
it.  She  had  never  had  a  home,  but  for  the  next  two 
years  she  could  pretend.  To  pretend  was  easy.  All  her 
life  she  had  lived  in  a  land  of  dreams,  tenanted  with 
shadowy  inhabitants  of  her  own  imagining  —  puppets  who 
moved  obedient  to  her  will  through  all  the  devious  paths 
of  make-believe;  a  spirit  world  where  she  ranged  free  of 
the  narrow  walls  that  restricted  her  liberty.  It  had  been 
easy  to  pretend  in  the  convent  —  how  much  easier  here  in 
the  solid  embodiment  of  a  dream  castle  and  stimulated 
by  the  real  human  affection  for  which  her  heart  had 
starved.  The  love  she  had  hitherto  known  had  been  unsat- 
isfying, too  impersonal,  too  restrained,  too  interwoven 
with  ^mystical  devotion.  Miss  Craven's  affection  was  of 
a  hardier,  more  practical  nature.  Blunt  candour  and 
sincerity  personified,  she  did  not  attempt  to  disguise  her 
attachment.  She  had  been  attracted,  had  approved,  and 
had  finally  co-opted  Gillian  into  the  family.  She  had, 
moreover,  great  faith  in  her  own  judgment.  And  to 
justify  that  faith  Gillian  would  have  gone  through  fire 
and  water. 

She  looked  gratefully  at  the  solid  little  figure  sitting 
at  the  foot  of  the  table  and  a  gleam  of  amusment  chased 
the  seriousness  from  her  eyes.  Miss  Craven  was  in  the 
throes  of  a  heated  discussion  with  Peters  which  involved 
elaborate  diagrams  traced  on  the  smooth  cloth  with  a 
salt  spoon,  and  as  Gillian  watched  she  completed  her 
design  with  a  fine  flourish  and  leant  back  triumphant  in 


92  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

her  chair,  rumpling  her  hair  fantastically.  But  the 
agent,  unconvinced,  fell  upon  her  mercilessly  and  in  a 
moment  she  was  bent  forward  again  in  vigorous  protest, 
drumming  impatiently  on  the  table  with  her  fingers  as  he 
laughingly  altered  her  drawing.  They  were  the  best  of 
friends  and  wrangled  continually.  To  Gillian  it  was  all 
so  fresh,  so  novel.  Then  her  attention  veered.  Through- 
out dinner  Craven  had  been  silent.  When  once  started 
on  a  discussion  his  aunt  and  Peters  tore  the  controversy 
amicably  to  tatters  in  complete  absorption.  He  had  not 
joined  in  the  argument.  As  always  Gillian  was  too  shy 
to  address  him  of  her  own  accord,  but  she  was  acutely 
conscious  of  his  nearness.  She  deprecated  her  own  atti- 
tude, yet  silence  was  better  than  the  banal  platitudes 
which  were  all  she  had  to  offer.  Her  range  was  so  re- 
stricted, his  —  who  had  travelled  the  world  over  —  must 
be  so  great.  With  the  exception  of  one  subject  her 
knowledge  was  negligible.  But  he  too  was  an  artist  — 
hopeless  to  attempt  that  topic,  she  concluded  with  swift 
contempt  for  her  own  limitations;  to  offer  the  opinions  of 
a  convent-bred  amateur  to  one  who  had  studied  in 
famous  Paris  ateliers  and  was  acquainted  with  the  art  of 
many  countries  would  be  an  impertinence.  But  yet  she 
knew  that  sometime  she  must  break  through  the  wall 
that  her  own  diffidence  had  built  up;  in  the  intimacy  of 
country  house  life  the  continuance  of  such  an  attitude 
would  be  both  impossible  and  ridiculous.  Contritely  she 
acknowledged  that  the  tension  between  them  was  largely 
her  own  fault,  a  disability  due  to  training.  But  she 
could  not  go  through  life  sheltering  behind  that  wholly 
inadequate  plea.  If  there  was  anything  in  her  at  all  she 
must  rise  above  the  conventions  in  which  she  had  been 
reared;  she  had  done  with  the  narro-Tness  of  the  past, 
now  she  must  think  broadly,  expansively,  in  all  things  — 
even  in  the  trivial  matter  of  social  intercourse.  A  saving 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  93 

sense  of  humour  sent  a  laugh  bubbling  into  her  throat 
which  nearly  escaped.  It  was  such  a  little  thing,  but  she 
had  magnified  it  so  greatly.  What,  after  all,  did  it 
amount  to  —  the  awkwardness  of  a  schoolgirl  very  prop- 
erly ignored  by  a  guardian  who  could  not  be  other  than 
bored  with  her  society.  Tant  pis!  She  could  at  least  try 
to  be  polite.  She  turned  with  the  heroic  intention  of 
breaking  the  ice  and  plunging  into  conversation,  banal 
though  it  might  be.  But  her  eyes  did  not  arrive  at  his 
face,  they  were  caught  and  held  by  his  hand,  lying  on 
the  white  cloth,  turning  and  twisting  an  empty  wine- 
glass between  long  strong  fingers.  Hands  fascinated  her. 
They  were  indicative  of  character,  testimonies  of  indi- 
vidual peculiarities.  She  was  sensitive  to  the  impression 
they  conveyed.  With  the  limited  material  available  she 
had  studied  them  —  nuns'  hands,  priests'  hands,  hands  of 
the  various  inmates  of  the  houses  where  she  had  stayed, 
and  the  hands  of  the  man  who  had  taught  her.  From 
him  she  had  learned  more  than  the  mere  rudiments  of 
her  art;  under  his  tuition  a  crude  interest  had  developed 
into  a  definite  study,  and  as  she  sat  looking  at  Barry 
Craven's  hand  a  sentence  from  one  of  his  lectures  recurred 
to  her  —  "  there  are  in  some  hands,  particularly  in  the 
case  of  men,  characteristics  denoting  certain  passions 
and  attributes  that  jump  to  the  eye  as  forcibly  as  if  they 
were  expressions  of  face. " 

Engaged  in  present  study  she  forgot  her  original  pur- 
pose, noting  the  salient  points  of  a  fresh  type,  enum- 
erating details  that  formed  the  composite  whole.  A 
strong  hand  that  could  in  its  strength  be  merciless  — 
could  it  equally  in  its  strength  be  merciful?  The 
strange  thought  came  unexpectedly  as  she  watched  the 
thin  stem  of  the  wineglass  turning  rapidly  and  then 
more  slowly  until,  with  a  little  tinkle,  it  snapped  as 
the  hand  clenched  suddenly,  the  knuckles  showing  white 


94  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

through  the  tanned  skin.  Gillian  drew  a  quick  breath. 
Had  she  been  the  cause  of  the  mishap  —  had  she  stared 
noticeably,  and  he  been  angry  at  an  impertinence?  Her 
cheeks  burned  and  in  a  misery  of  shyness  she  forced  her 
eyes  to  his  face.  Her  contrition  was  needless.  Heedless 
of  her  he  was  looking  at  the  splintered  glass  between  his 
fingers  with  a  faint  expression  of  surprise,  as  if  his 
wandering  thoughts  were  but  half  recalled  by  the 
accident.  For  a  moment  he  stared  at  the  shatterd 
pieces  —  then  laid  them  down  indifferently. 

Gillian  smothered  an  hysterical  inclination  to  laugh. 
He  was  so  totally  negligent  of  her  presence  that  even 
this  little  incident  had  failed  to  make  him  sensible  of  her 
scrutiny.  Immersed  in  his  thoughts  he  was  very  obvi- 
ously miles  away  from  Craven  Towers  and  the  vicinity 
of  a  troublesome  ward.  And  suddenly  it  hurt.  She 
was  nothing  to  him  but  a  shy  gauche  girl  whose  very 
existence  was  an  embarrassment.  The  determination 
so  bravely  formed  died  before  his  cold  detachment. 
More  than  ever  was  speech  impossible. 

She  shrugged  faintly  with  a  little  pout.  So,  confident 
of  his  preoccupation,  she  continued  to  study  him.  Had 
the  homecoming  intensified  the  sadness  of  his  eyes  and 
deepened  the  lines  about  his  mouth?  —  were  memories  of 
the  mother  he  had  adored  sharpening  tonight  the  look 
of  suffering  on  his  face?  Or  was  her  imagination,  over- 
excited, exaggerating  what  she  saw  and  fancying  a  great 
sorrow  where  there  was  only  boredom?  She  pondered, 
and  had  almost  concluded  that  the  latter  was  the  saner 
explanation  when  —  watching  —  she  saw  a  sudden  spasm 
cross  his  face  of  such  agony  that  she  caught  her  lip 
fiercely  between  her  teeth  to  stifle  an  exclamation.  In 
the  fleeting  expression  of  a  moment  she  had  seen  the 
revelation  of  a  soul  in  torment.  She  looked  away 
hastily,  feeling  dismayed  at  having  trespassed.  She 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  95 

had  discovered  a  secret  wound.    She  sat  tense,  and  a 
quick  fear  came  lest  the  others  might  have  also  seen. 
She  glanced  at  them  furtively.    But  the  argument  was 
still  unsettled,  the  tablecloth  between  them  scored  and 
creased   with   conflicting   sketches.     She   drew   a   sharp 
little  sigh  of  relief.    Only  she  had  noticed,  and  she  did 
not  matter.    For  a  few  moments  her  thoughts  ran  riot 
until  she  pulled  them  up  frowningly.    It  was  no  busi- 
ness of  hers  —  she  had  no  right  even  to  speculate  on  his 
affairs.    Angry  with  herself  she  turned  for  distraction  to 
the  portraits  on  the  walls  —  they  at  least  would  offer  no 
disturbing  problem.    But  her  determination  to  keep  her 
thoughts  from  her  guardian  met  with  a  check  at  the  out- 
set for  she  found  herself  staring  at  Barry  Craven  as  she 
had  visualised  him  in  that  first  moment  of  meeting  — 
steel-clad.    It  was  the  picture  of  a  young  man,  dressed 
in  the  style  of  the  Elizabethan  period,  wearing  a  light 
inlaid  cuirass   and  leaning  negligently  against   a  stone 
balustrade,  a  hooded  falcon  on  his  wrist.    The  resem- 
blance to  the  owner  of  Craven  Towers  was  remarkable 
—  the  same  build,  the  same  haughty  carriage  of  the 
head,  the  same  features  and  colouring;  the  mouth  only 
of  the  painted  gallant  differed,  for  the  lips  were  not  set 
sternly  but  curved  in  a  singularly  winning  smile.    The 
portrait  had  recently  been  cleaned  and  the  colours  stood 
out  freshly.    The  pose  of  the  figure  was  curiously  unre- 
strained for  the  period,  a  suggestion  of  energy  —  barely 
concealed  by  the  indolent  attitude  —  broke  through  the 
conventional  treatment  of  the  time,  as  if  the  painter 
had  responded  to  an  influence  that  had  overcome  tradi- 
tion.    The    whole   body   seemed   to   pulsate   with   life. 
Gillian   looked   at   it   entranced;   instinctively   her  eyes 
sought  the  pictured  hands.   The  one  that  held  the  falcon 
was  covered  with  an  embroidered  leather  glove,  but  the 
other  was  bare,  holding  a  set  of  jesses.    And  even  the 


96  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

hands  were  similar,  the  characteristics  faithfully  trans- 
mitted. Peters'  voice  startled  her.  "You  are  looking 
at  the  first  Barry  Craven,  Miss  Locke.  It  is  a  wonderful 
picture.  The  resemblance  is  extraordinary,  is  it  not?" 

She  looked  up  and  met  the  agent's  magnetic  smile 
across  the  table. 

"It  is  —  extraordinary,"  she  said  slowly;  "it  might 
be  a  costume  portrait  of  Mr.  Craven,  except  that  in 
treatment  the  picture  is  so  different  from  a  modern 
painting." 

Peters  laughed. 

"The  professional  eye,  Miss  Locke!  But  I  am  glad 
that  you  admit  the  likeness.  I  should  have  quarrelled 
horribly  with  you  if  you  had  failed  to  see  it.  The  young 
man  in  the  picture,"  he  went  on,  warming  to  the  sub- 
ject as  he  saw  the  girl's  interest,  "was  one  of  the  most 
romantic  personages  of  his  time.  He  lived  in  the  reign 
of  Elizabeth  and  was  poet,  sculptor,  and  musician  — 
there  are  two  volumes  of  his  verse  in  the  library  and  the 
marble  Hermes  in  the  hall  is  his  work.  When  he  was 
seventeen  he  left  the  Towers  to  go  to  court.  He  seems 
to  have  been  universally  beloved,  judging  from  various 
letters  that  have  come  down  to  us.  He  was  a  close  friend 
of  Sir  Philip  Sidney  and  one  of  Spenser's  numerous 
patrons.  A  special  favourite  with  Elizabeth  —  in  fact 
her  partiality  seems  to  have  been  a  source  of  some 
embarrassment,  according  to  entries  in  his  private 
journal.  She  knighted  him  for  no  particular  reason  that 
has  ever  transpired,  indeed  it  seems  to  hav°.  been  a 
matter  of  surprise  to  himself,  for  he  records  it  in  his 
journal  thus : 

"* dubbed  knight  this  day  by  Gloriana.  God  He 

knoweth  why,  but  not  I.'  He  was  an  idealist  and  vis- 
ionary, with  the  power  of  putting  his  thoughts  into 
words  —  his  love  poems  are  the  most  beautiful  I  have 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  9* 

ever  read,  but  they  are  quite  impersonal.  There  is  no 
evidence  that  his  love  was  ever  given  to  any  'faire 
ladye.'  No  woman's  name  was  ever  connected  with 
his,  and  from  his  detached  attitude  towards  the  tender 
passion  he  earned,  in  a  fantastical  court,  the  euphuistic 
appellation  of  L'amant  d'  Amour.  Quite  suddenly,  after 
ten  years  in  the  queen's  household,  he  fitted  out  an 
expedition  to  America.  He  gave  no  reason.  Distaste  for 
the  artificial  existence  prevailing  at  Court,  sorrow  at  the 
death  of  his  friend  Sidney,  or  a  wander-hunger  fed  on 
the  tales  brought  home  by  the  numerous  merchant 
adventurers  may  have  been  the  cause  of  this  surprising 
step.  His  decision  provoked  dismay  among  his  friends 
and  brought  a  furious  tirade  from  Elizabeth  who  com- 
manded him  to  remain  near  her.  But  in  spite  of  royal 
oaths  and  entreaties  —  more  of  the  former  than  the  latter 

—  he  sailed  to  Virginia  on  a  land  expedition.   Two  letters 
came  from  him  during  the  next  few  years,  but  after  that 

—  silence.    His  fate  is  not  known.    He  was  the  first  of 
many  Cravens  to  vanish  into  oblivion  searching  for  new 
lands."    The  pleasant  voice  hesitated  and  dropped  to  a 
lower,  more  serious  note.    And  Gillian  was  puzzled  at 
the  sudden  anxiety  that  clouded  the  agent's  smiling  blue 
eyes.    She  had  listened  with  eager  interest.    It  was  his- 
tory brought  close  ana  made  alive  in  its  intimate  con- 
nection with  the  h^iise.    The  dream  castle  was  more 
wonderful  even  than  she  had  thought.    She  smiled  her 
thanks  at  Peters,  and  drew  a  long  breath. 

"I  like  that,"  and  looking  at  the  picture  again,  "the 
Lover  of  Love!"  she  repeated  softly;  "it's  a  very 
beautiful  idea." 

"A  very  unsatisfactory  one  for  any  poor  soul  who 
may  have  been  fool  enough  to  lose  her  heart  to  him." 
Miss  Craven's  voice  was  caustic. 

"I  have  often  wondered  if  any  demoiselle  'pined  in 


98  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

a  green  and  yellow  melancholy  for  nis  sake,  '  she  added^ 
rising  from  the  table. 

"Reason  enough,  if  he  knew  of  it,  for  going  to  Vir- 
ginia," said  Craven,  with  a  hard  laugh.  "The  family 
tradition*  have  never  tended  to  undue  consideration  of 
the  weaker  sex." 

"Barry,  you  are  horrible!'* 

"Possibly,  my  dear  aunt,  but  correct,"  he  replied 
coolly,  crossing  the  room  to  open  the  door.  "Even 
Peter,  who  has  the  family  history  at  his  fingers'  ends, 
cannot  deny  it."  His  voice  was  provocative  but  Peters, 

beyond  a  mildly  sarcastic  " thank  you  for  the 

'even,'  Barry "  refused  to  be  drawn. 

Her  nephew's  words  would  formerly  have  aroused  a 
storm  of  indignant  protest  from  Miss  Craven,  touched  in 
a  tender  spot.  But  now  some  intuition  warned  her  to 
silence.  She  put  her  arm  through  Gillian's  and  left  the 
room  without  attempting  to  expostulate. 

In  the  drawing  room  she  sat  down  to  a  patience  table, 
lit  a  cigarette,  rumpled  her  hair,  and  laid  out  the  cards 
frowningly.  More  than  ever  was  she  convinced  that  in 
the  two  years  he  had  been  away  some  serious  disaster 
had  occurred.  His  whole  character  appeared  to  have 
undergone  a  change.  He  was  totally  different.  The  old 
Barry  had  been  neither  hard  nor  cynical,  the  new  Barry 
was  both.  In  the  last  few  weeks  she  had  had  ample 
opportunity  for  judging.  She  perceived  that  a  heavy 
shadow  lay  upon  him  darkening  his  home-coming  —  she 
had  pictured  it  so  very  differently,  and  she  sighed  over 
the  futility  of  anticipation.  His  happiness  meant  to  her 
so  much  that  she  raged  at  her  inability  to  help  him. 
Until  he  spoke  she  could  do  nothing.  And  she  knew 
that  he  would  never  speak.  The  nightly  occupation  lost 
its  usual  zest,  so  she  shuffled  the  cards  absently  and 
began  a  fresh  game. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  99 

Gillian  was  on  the  hearthrug,  Mouston's  head  in  her 
lap.  She  leant  against  Miss  Craven's  chair,  dreaming 
as  she  had  dreamt  in  the  old  convent  until  the  sudden 
lifting  of  the  dog's  head  under  her  hands  made  her 
aware  of  Peters  standing  beside  her.  He  looked  down 
silently  on  the  card  table  for  a  few  moments,  pointed 
with  a  nicotine-stained  finger  to  a  move  Miss  Craven 
had  missed  and  then  wandered  across  the  room  and  sat 
down  at  the  piano.  For  a  while  his  hands  moved 
silently  over  the  keys,  then  he  began  to  play,  and  his 
playing  was  exquisite.  Gillian  sat  and  marvelled. 
Peters  and  music  had  seemed  widely  apart.  He  had 
appeared  so  essentially  a  sportsman;  in  spite  of  the 
literary  tendency  that  his  sympathetic  account  of  the 
Elizabethan  Barry  Craven  had  suggested  she  had  asso- 
ciated him  with  rougher,  more  physical  pursuits.  He 
was  obviously  an  out-door  man;  a  gun  seemed  a  more 
natural  complement  to  his  hands  than  the  sensitive  keys 
of  a  piano,  his  thick  rather  clumsy  fingers  manifestly 
incompatible  with  the  delicate  touch  that  was  filling  the 
room  with  wonderful  harmony.  It  was  a  check  to  her 
cherished  theory  which  she  acknowledged  reluctantly. 
But  she  forgot  to  theorise  in  the  sheer  joy  of  listening. 

"Why  did  he  not  make  music  a  career?"  she  whis- 
pered, under  cover  of  some  crashing  chords.  Miss  Craven, 
smiled  at  her  eager  face. 

"Can  you  see  Peter  kow-towing  to  concert  directors, 
and  grimacing  at  an  audience?"  she  replied,  rescuing  a 
king  from  her  rubbish  heap. 

With  an  answering  smile  Gillian  subsided  into  her 
former  position.  Music  moved  her  deeply  and  her  highly 
strung  artistic  temperament  was  responding  to  the 
beauty  of  Peters'  playing.  It  was  a  Russian  folk  song, 
plaintive  and  simple,  with  a  curious  minor  refrain  like 
the  sigh  of  »n  aching  heart  —  wild  sad  harmony  witfe 


100  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

pain  in  it  that  gripped  the  throat.  Swayed  by  the 
sorrow-haunted  music  a  wave  of  foreboding  came  over 
her,  a  strange  indefinite  fear  that  was  formless  but  that 
weighed  on  her  like  a  crushing  burden.  The  happiness 
of  the  last  few  weeks  seemed  suddenly  swamped  in  the 
recollection  of  the  misery  rampant  in  the  world.  Who, 
if  their  inmost  hearts  were  known,  were  truly  happy? 
And  her  thoughts,  becoming  more  personal,  flitted  back 
over  the  desolate  days  of  her  own  sad  girlhood  and 
then  drifted  to  the  tragedy  of  her  father.  Then,  with 
a  forward  leap  that  brought  her  suddenly  to  the  pres- 
ent, she  thought  of  the  sorrow  she  had  seen  on  Craven's 
face  in  that  breathless  moment  at  dinner  time.  Was 
there  only  sadness  in  the  world?  The  brooding  brown 
eyes  grew  misty.  A  passionate  prayer  welled  up  in  her 
heart  that  complete  happiness  might  touch  her  once, 
if  only  for  a  moment. 

Then  the  music  changed  and  with  it  the  girl's  mood. 
She  gave  her  head  a  little  backward  jerk  and  blinked 
the  moisture  from  her  eyes  angrily.  What  was  the 
matter  with  her?  Surely  she  was  the  most  ungrateful 
.girl  in  the  universe.  If  there  was  sorrow  in  the  world  for 
her  then  it  must  be  of  her  own  making.  She  had  been 
shown  almost  unbelievable  kindness,  nothing  had  been 
omitted  to  make  her  happy.  The  contrast  of  her  life 
only  a  few  weeks  ago  and  now  was  immeasurable.  What 
more  did  she  want?  Was  she  so  selfish  that  she  could 
even  think  of  the  unhappiness  that  was  over?  Shame 
filled  her,  and  she  raised  her  eyes  to  the  woman  beside 
her  with  a  sudden  rush  of  gratitude  and  love.  But 
Miss  Craven,  interested  at  last  in  her  game,  was  blind 
to  her  surroundings,  and  with  a  little  smile  Gillian 
turned  her  attention  to  the  silent  occupant  of  the  chair 
near  her.  Craven  had  come  into  the  room  a  few  minutes 
brfore.  He  was  leaning  back  listlessly,  one  hand  shad- 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  101 

ing  his  face,  a  neglected  cigarette  dangling  from  the 
other.  She  looked  at  him  long  and  earnestly,  wonder- 
ing, as  she  always  wondered,  what  association  there  had 
been  between  him  and  such  a  man  as  her  father  —  what 
had  induced  him  to  take  upon  himself  the  burden  that 
had  been  laid  upon  him.  And  her  cheeks  grew  hot  again 
at  the  thought  of  the  encumbrance  she  was  to  him.  It 
was  preposterous  that  he  should  be  so  saddled! 

She  stifled  a  sigh  and  her  eyes  grew  dreamy  as  she 
fell  to  thinking  of  the  future  that  lay  before  her.  And 
as  she  planned  with  eager  confidence  her  hand  moved 
soothingly  over  the  dog's  head  in  measure  to  the  lan- 
guorous waltz  that  Peters  was  playing. 

After  a  sudden  unexpected  chord  the  player  rose  from 
the  piano  and  joined  the  circle  at  the  other  end  of  the 
room.  Miss  Craven  was  scuffling  vigorously.  "Thank 
you,  Peter,"  she  said,  with  a  smiling  nod,  "it's  like  old 
times  to  hear  you  play  again.  Gillian  thinks  you  have 
missed  your  vocation,  she  would  like  to  see  you  at  the 
Queen's  Hall." 

Peters  laughed  at  the  girl's  blushing  protest  and  sat 
down  near  the  card  table.  Miss  Craven  paused  in  a  deal 
to  light  a  fresh  cigarette. 

"What's  the  news  in  the  county?"  she  asked,  adding 
for  Gillian's  benefit:  "He's  a  walking  chronicle,  my 
dear." 

Peters  laughed.  "Nothing  startling,  dear  lady.  We 
have  been  a  singularly  well-behaved  community  of  late. 
Old  Lacy  of  Holmwood  is  dead,  Bill  Lacy  reigns  in  his 
stead  and  is  busy  cutting  down  oaks  to  pay  for  youthful 
indiscretions  —  none  of  'em  very  fierce  when  all's  said 
and  done.  The  Hamer-Banisters  have  gone  under  at 
last  —  more's  the  pity  —  and  Hamer  is  let  to  some  wealthy 
Australians  who  are  possessed  apparently  of  unlimited 
cash,  a  most  curious  phraseology,  and  an  assurance 


102  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

which  is  beautiful  to  behold.  They  had  good  intro- 
ductions and  Alex  has  taken  them  up  enthusiastically  — 
there  are  kindred  tastes." 

"Horses,  I  presume.    How  are  the  Horringfords?" 

"Much  as  usual,"  replied  Peters.  "Horringford  is 
absorbed  in  things  Egyptian,  and  Alex  is  on  the  warpath 
again,"  he  added  darkly. 

Miss  Craven  grinned. 

"What  is  it  this  time?" 

Peters'  eyebrows  twitched  quaintly. 

"Socialism!"  he  chuckled,  "a  brand  new,  highly 
original  conception  of  that  very  elastic  term.  I  asked 
Alex  to  explain  the  principles  of  this  particular  organize 
tion  and  she  was  very  voluble  and  rather  cryptic.  It 
appears  to  embrace  the  rights  of  man,  the  elevation  of 
the  masses,  the  relations  between  landlord  and  tenant,, 
the  psychological  deterioration  of  the  idle  rich '' 

"Alex  and  psychology  —  good  heavens!"  interposed 
Miss  Craven,  her  hands  at  her  hair,  "and  the  ameliora- 
tion of  the  downtrodden  poor,"  continued  Peters.  "It 
doesn't  sound  very  original,  but  I'm  told  that  the  propa- 
ganda is  novel  in  the  extreme.  Alex  is  hard  at  work 
among  their  own  people,"  he  concluded,  leaning  back 
in  his  chair  with  a  laugh. 

"But — the  downtrodden  poor!  I  thought  Horring- 
ford was  a  model  landlord  and  his  estates  an  example 
to  the  kingdom." 

"Precisely.  That's  the  humour  of  it.  But  a  little 
detail  like  that  wouldn't  deter  Alex.  It  will  be  an  inter- 
est for  the  summer,  she's  always  rather  at  a  loose  end 
when  there's  no  hunting.  She  had  taken  up  this  socialis- 
tic business  very  thoroughly,  organizing  meetings  and 
lectures.  A  completely  new  scheme  for  the  upbringing 
of  children  seems  to  be  a  special  sideline  of  the  cam- 
paign. I'm  rather  vague  there  —  I  know  I  made  Alex 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  103 

very  angry  by  telling  her  that  it  reminded  me  of  inten- 
sive market  gardening.  That  Alex  has  no  children  of 
her  own  presents  no  difficulty  to  her  —  she  is  full  of  the 
most  beautiful  theories.  But  theories  don't  seem  to  go 
down  very  well  with  the  village  women.  She  was  routed 
the  other  day  by  the  mother  of  a  family  who  told  her 
bluntly  to  her  face  she  didn't  know  what  she  was  talk- 
ing about  —  which  was  doubtless  perfectly  true.  But  the 
manner  of  telling  seems  to  have  been  disagreeable  and 
Alex  was  very  annoyed  and  complained  to  Thomson, 
the  new  agent.  He,  poor  chap,  was  between  the  devil 
and  the  deep  sea,  for  the  tenants  had  also  been  com- 
plaining that  they  were  being  interfered  with.  So  he 
had  to  go  to  Horringford  and  there  was  a  royal  row. 
The  upshot  of  it  was  that  Alex  rang  me  up  on  the  'phone 
this  morning  to  tell  me  that  Horringford  was  behaving 
like  a  bear,  that  he  was  so  wrapped  up  in  his  musty 
mummies  that  he  hadn't  a  spark  of  philanthropy  in  him, 
and  that  she  was  coming  over  to  lunch  tomorrow  to  tell 
me  all  about  it  —  she's  delighted  to  hear  that  the  house 
is  open  again,  and  will  come  on  to  you  for  tea,  when 
you  will  doubtless  get  a  second  edition  of  her  woes. 
Half-an-hour  later  Horringford  rang  me  up  to  say  that 
Alex  had  been  particularly  tiresome  over  some  new 
crank  which  had  set  everybody  by  the  ears,  that 
Thomson  was  sending  in  a  resignation  daily,  altogether 
there  was  the  deuce  to  pay,  and  would  I  use  my  influ- 
ence and  talk  sense  to  her.  It  appears  he  is  working  at 
high  pressure  to  finish  a  monograph  on  one  of  the 
Pharaohs  and  was  considerably  ruffled  at  being  inter- 
rupted." 

f'If  he  cared  a  little  less  for  the  Pharaohs  and  a  little 

more  for  Alex "  suggested    Miss    Craven,  blowing 

smoke  rings  thoughtfully.    Peters  shook  his  head. 

"He  did  care  —  that's  the  pity  of  it,"  he  said  slowly, 


104  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

"but  what  can  you  expect?  —  you  know  how  it  was. 
Alex  was  a  child  married  when  she  should  have  been  in 
the  schoolroom,  without  a  voice  in  the  matter.  Hor- 
ringford  was  nearly  twenty  years  her  senior,  always 
reserved  and  absorbed  in  his  Egyptian  researches.  Alex 
hadn't  an  idea  in  the  world  outside  the  stables.  Hor- 
ringford  bored  her  infinitely,  and  with  Alex-like  honesty 
she  did  not  hesitate  to  tell  him  so.  They  hadn't  a  thought 
in  common.  She  couldn't  see  the  sterling  worth  of  the 
man,  so  they  drifted  apart  and  Horringford  retired  more 
than  ever  into  his  shell. " 

"And  what  do  you  propose  to  do,  Peter?"  Craven's 
sudden  question  was  startling,  for  he  had  not  appeared 
to  be  listening  to  the  conversation. 

Peters  lit  a  cigarette  and  smoked  for  a  few  moments 
before  answering.  "I  shall  listen  to  all  Alex  has  to 
say,"  he  said  at  last,  "then  I  shall  tell  her  a  few  things 
I  think  she  ought  to  know,  and  I  shall  persuade  her  to 
ask  Horringford  to  take  her  with  him  to  Egypt  next 
winter. " 

"Why?" 

"Because  Horringford  in  Egypt  and  Horringford  in 
England  are  two  very  different  people.  I  know  — 
because  I  have  seen.  It's  an  idea,  it  may  work.  Anyhow 
it's  worth  trying. " 

"But  suppose  her  ladyship  does  not  succumb  to  your 
persuasive  tongue?" 

"She  will  —  before  I've  done  with  her,"  replied  Peters 
grimly,  and  then  he  laughed.  "I  guessed  from  what 
she  said  this  morning  that  she  was  a  little  frightened  at 
the  hornet's  nest  she  had  raised.  I  imagine  she  won't  be 
sorry  to  run  away  for  a  while  and  let  things  settle  down. 
She  can  ease  off  gently  in  the  meantime  and  give  Egypt 
as  an  excuse  for  finally  withdrawing." 

"You  think  Alex  is  more  to  blame    than    Herring- 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  105 

ford?"  said  Miss  Craven,  with  a  note  of  challenge  in 
her  voice. 

Peters  shrugged.  "I  blame  them  both.  But  above 
all  I  blame  the  system  that  has  been  responsible  for  the 
trouble." 

"You  mean  that  Alex  should  have  been  allowed  to 
choose  her  own  husband?  She  was  such  a  child " 

"And  Horringford  was  such  a  devil  of  a  good  match," 
interposed  Craven  cynically,  moving  from  his  chair  to 
the  padded  fireguard.  Gillian  was  sitting  on  the  arm  of 
Miss  Craven's  chair,  sorting  the  patience  cards  into  a 
leather  case.  She  looked  up  quickly.  "I  thought  that 
in  England  all  girls  choose  their  own  husbands,  that 
they  marry  to  please  themselves,  I  mean, "  she  said  in  a 
puzzled  voice. 

"Theoretically  they  do,  my  dear,"  replied  Miss 
Craven,  "in  practice  numbers  do  not.  The  generality 
of  girls  settle  their  own  futures  and  choose  their  own 
husbands.  But  there  are  still  many  old-fashioned  people 
who  arrogate  to  themselves  the  right  of  settling  their 
daughters'  lives,  who  have  so  trained  them  that  resist- 
ance to  family  wishes  becomes  almost  an  impossibility. 
A  good  suitor  presents  himself,  parental  pressure  is 
brought  to  bear  —  and  the  deed  is  done.  Witness  the 
case  of  Alex.  In  a  few  years  she  probably  would  have 
chosen  for  herself,  wisely.  As  it  was,  marriage  had 
never  entered  her  head." 

"She  couldn't  have  chosen  a  better  man,"  said  Peters 
warmly,  "if  he  had  only  been  content  to  wait  a  year 
or  two " 

"Alex  would  probably  have  eloped  with  a  groom  or  a 
circus  rider  before  she  reached  years  of  discretion!" 
laughed  Miss  Craven.  "But  it's  a  difficult  question, 
the  problem  of  husband  choosing, "  she  went  on  thought- 
fully. "Being  a  bachelor  I  can  discuss  it  with  perfect 


106  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

equanimity.  But  if  in  a  moment  of  madness  I  had  mar- 
ried and  acquired  a  houseful  of  daughters,  I  should  have 
nervous  prostration  every  time  a  strange  man  showed 
his  nose  inside  the  door." 

"You  don't  set  us  on  a  very  high  plane,  dear  lady," 
said  Peters  reproachfully. 

"My  good  soul,  I  set  you  on  no  plane  at  all  —  know- 
too  much  about  you!"  she  smiled.  Peters  laughed. 
"What's  your  opinion,  Barry?" 

Since  his  one  interruption  Craven  had  been  silent,  as  if 
the  discussion  had  ceased  to  interest  him.  He  did  not 
answer  Peters'  question  for  some  time  and  when  at  last 
he  spoke  his  voice  was  curiously  strained.  "I  don't 
think  my  opinion  counts  for  very  much,  but  it  seems  to 
me  that  the  woman  takes  a  big  risk  either  way.  A  man 
never  knows  what  kind  of  a  blackguard  he  may  prove 
in  circumstances  that  may  arise." 

An  awkward  pause  followed.  Miss  Craven  kept  her 
eyes  fixed  on  the  card  table  with  a  feeling  of  nervous 
apprehension  that  was  new  to  her.  Her  nephew's  words 
and  the  bitterness  of  his  tone  seemed  fraught  with 
hidden  meaning,  and  she  racked  her  brains  to  find  a 
topic  that  would  lessen  the  tension  that  seemed  to  have 
fallen  on  the  room.  But  Peters  broke  the  silence  before 
it  became  noticeable.  "The  one  person  present  whom 
it  most  nearly  concerns  has  not  given  us  her  view. 
What  do  you  say,  Miss  Locke?" 

Gillian  flushed  faintly.  It  was  still  difficult  to  join  in 
a  general  conversation,  to  remember  that  she  might  at 
any  moment  be  called  upon  to  put  forward  ideas  of  her 
own. 

"I  am  afraid  I  am  prejudiced.  I  was  brought  up  in 
a  convent  —  in  France,"  she  said  hesitatingly.  "Then 
you  hold  with  the  French  custom  of  arranged  mar- 
riages?" suggested  Peters.  Her  dark  eyes  looked 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  107 

seriously  into  his.  "I  think  it  is  —  safer,"  she  said 
slowly. 

"And  consequently,  happier?"  The  colour  deepened 
in  her  face.  "Oh,  I  don't  know.  I  do  not  understand 
English  ways.  I  can  speak  only  of  France.  We  talked 
of  it  in  the  convent  —  naturally,  since  it  was  forbidden, 
quez  voulez  vous?"  she  smiled.  "Some  of  my  friends 
were  married.  Their  parents  arranged  the  marriages. 
It  seems  that "  she  stammered  and  went  on  hur- 
riedly —  "  that  there  is  much  to  be  considered  in  choos- 
ing a  husband,  much  that  —  girls  do  not  understand,  that 
only  older  people  know.  So  it  is  perhaps  better  that 
they  should  arrange  a  matter  which  is  so  serious  and  so 
—  so  lasting.  They  must  know  more  than  we  do,"  she 
added  quietly. 

"And  are  your  friends  happy?"  asked  Miss  Craven 
bluntly. 

"They  are  content." 

Miss  Craven  snorted.  "Content!"  she  said  scorn- 
fully. "Marriage  should  bring  more  than  contentment. 
It's  a  meagre  basis  on  which  to  found  a  life  partnership. " 

A  shadow  flitted  across  the  girl's  face. 

"I  had  a  friend  who  married  for  love,"  she  said 
slowly.  "She  belonged  to  the  old  noblesse,  and  her 
family  wished  her  to  make  a  great  marriage.  But  she 
loved  an  artist  and  married  him  in  spite  of  all  opposition. 
For  six  months  she  was  the  happiest  girl  in  France  — 
then  she  found  out  that  her  husband  was  unfaithful. 
Does  it  shock  you  that  I  speak  of  it  —  we  all  knew  in  the 
convent.  She  went  to  Capri  soon  afterwards,  to  a  villa 
her  father  had  given  her,  and  one  morning  she  went  out 
to  swim  —  it  was  a  daily  habit,  she  could  do  anything  in 
the  water.  But  that  morning  she  swam  out  to  sea  —  and 
she  did  not  come  back."  The  low  voice  sank  almost  to 
ft  whisper.  Miss  Craven  looked  up  incredulously.  "Do 


108  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

you  mean  she  deliberately  drowned  herself?"  Gillian 
made  a  little  gesture  of  evasion.  "  She  was  very  unhappy," 
she  said  softly.  And  in  the  silence  that  followed  her 
troubled  gaze  turned  almost  unconsciously  to  her  guard- 
ian. He  had  risen  and  was  standing  with  his  hands 
in  his  pockets  staring  straight  in  front  of  him,  rigidly 
still.  His  attitude  suggested  complete  detachment 
from  those  about  him,  as  if  his  spirit  was  ranging  far 
afield  leaving  the  big  frame  empty,  impenetrable  as 
a  figure  of  stone.  She  was  sensitive  to  his  lack  of  inter- 
est. She  regretted  having  expressed  opinions  that  she 
feared  were  immature  and  valueless.  A  quick  sigh 
escaped  her,  and  Miss  Craven,  misunderstanding,  patted 
her  shoulder  gently.  "It's  a  very  sad  little  story,  my 
dear." 

"And  one  that  serves  to  confirm  your  opinion  that  a 
girl  does  well  to  accept  the  husband  who  is  chosen  for 
her,  Miss  Locke?"  asked  Peters  abruptly,  as  he  glanced 
at  his  watch  and  rose  to  his  feet. 

Gillian  joined  in  the  general  move. 

"I  think  it  is  —  safer, "  she  said,  as  she  had  said  before, 
and  stooped  to  rouse  the  sleeping  poodle. 


CHAPTER    V 

MISS  CRAVEN  was  sitting  alone  in  the  library  at 
the  Towers.  She  had  been  reading,  but  the  book 
had  failed  to  hold  her  attention  and  lay  unheeded  on 
her  lap  while  she  was  plunged  in  a  profound  reverie. 

She  sat  very  still,  her  usually  serene  face  clouded,  and 
once  or  twice  a  heavy  sigh  escaped  her. 

The  short  November  day  was  drawing  in  and  though 
still  early  afternoon  it  was  already  growing  dark.  The 
declining  light  was  more  noticeable  in  the  library  than 
elsewhere  in  the  house  —  a  sombre  room  once  the  morn- 
ing sun  had  passed;  long  and  narrow  and  panelled  in 
oak  to  a  height  of  about  twelve  feet,  above  which  ran 
a  gallery  reached  by  a  hammered  iron  stairway,  it 
housed  a  collection  of  calf  and  vellum  bound  books 
which  clothed  the  walls  from  the  floor  of  the  gallery  to 
within  a  few  feet  of  the  lofty  ceiling.  On  the  fourth 
side  of  the  room,  whither  the  gallery  did  not  extend, 
three  tall  narrow  windows  overlooked  the  drive.  The 
furniture  was  scanty  and  severely  Jacobean,  having  for 
more  than  two  hundred  years  remained  practically 
intact;  a  ponderous  writing  table,  a  couple  of  long  low 
cabinets,  and  half  a  dozen  cavernous  armchairs  recush- 
ioned  to  suit  modern  requirements  of  ease.  Some  fine 
old  bronzes  stood  against  the  panelled  walls.  There 
was  about  the  room  a  settled  peacefulness.  The  old 
furniture  had  a  stately  air  of  permanence.  The  polished 
panels,  and,  above,  the  orderly  ranks  of  ancient  books 
suggested  durability;  they  remained  —  while  generations 
of  men  came  and  passed,  transient  figures  reflected  in 
the  shining  oak,  handling  for  a  few  brief  years  the 

100 


110  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

printed  treasures  that  would  still  be  read  centuries  aft«r 
they  had  returned  to  their  dust. 

The  spirit  of  the  house  seemed  embodied  in  this  big 
silent  room  that  was  spacious  and  yet  intimate,  formal 
and  yet  friendly. 

It  was  Miss  Craven's  favourite  retreat.  The  atmo- 
sphere was  sympathetic.  Here  she  seemed  more  par- 
ticularly in  touch  with  the  subtle  influence  of  family 
that  seemed  to  pervade  the  whole  house.  In  most  of 
the  rooms  it  was  perceptible,  but  in  the  library  it  was 
forceful. 

The  house  and  the  family  —  they  were  bound  up 
inseparably. 

For  hundreds  of  years,  in  an  unbroken  line,  from 
father  to  son  .  .  .  from  father  to  son.  .  .  .  Miss 
Craven  sat  bolt  upright  to  the  sound  of  an  unmistak- 
able sob.  She  looked  with  amazement  at  two  tears 
blistering  the  page  of  the  open  book  on  her  knee.  She  had 
not  knowingly  cried  since  childhood.  It  was  a  good  thing 
that  she  was  alone  she  thought,  with  a  startled  glance 
round  the  empty  room.  She  would  have  to  keep  a  firmer 
hold  over  herself  than  that.  She  laughed  a  little  shakily, 
choked,  blew  her  nose,  vigorously,  and  walked  to  the 
middle  window.  Outside  was  stark  November.  The  wind 
swept  round  the  house  in  fierce  gusts  before  which  the  big 
bare- branched  trees  in  the  park  swayed  and  bowed,  and 
trains  of  late  fallen  leaves  caught  in  a  whirlwind  edded 
skyward  to  scatter  widely  down  again. 

Rain  lashed  the  window  panes.  Yet  even  when  storm- 
tossed  the  scene  had  its  own  peculiar  charm.  At  all 
seasons  it  was  lovely. 

Miss  Craven  looked  at  the  massive  trees,  beautiful  in 
then*  clean  nakedness,  and  wondered  how  often  she 
would  see  them  bud  again.  Frowning,  she  smothered 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  111 

a  rising  sigh  and'  pressing  closer  in  the  window  peered 
out  more  attentively.  Eastward  and  westward  stretched 
long  avenues  that  curved  and  receded  soon  from  sight. 
The  gravelled  space  before  the  house  was  wide;  from  it 
two  shorter  avenues  encircling  a  large  oval  paddock  led 
to  the  stables,  built  at  some  distance  facing  the  house, 
but  hidden  by  a  belt  of  firs. 

For  some  time  Miss  Craven  watched,  but  only  a  game- 
keeper passed,  a  drenched  setter  at  his  heels,  and  with 
a  little  shiver  she  turned  back  to  the  room.  She  moved 
about  restlessly,  lifting  books  to  lay  them  down  im- 
mediately, ransacking  the  cabinets  for  prints  that  at  a 
second  glance  failed  to  interest,  and  examining  the 
bronzes  that  she  had  known  from  childhood  with  lengthy 
intentness  as  if  she  saw  them  now  for  the  first  time. 

A  footman  came  and  silently  replenished  the  fire. 
Her  thoughts,  interrupted,  swung  into  a  new  channel. 
She  sat  down  at  the  writing  table  and  drawing  toward 
her  a  sheet  of  paper  slowly  wrote  the  date.  Beyond 
that  she  did  not  get.  The  ink  dried  on  the  pen  as  she 
stared  at  the  blank  sheet,  unable  to  express  as  she  wished 
the  letter  she  had  intended  to  write. 

She  laid  the  silver  holder  down  at  last  with  a  hopeless 
gesture  and  her  eyes  turned  to  a  bronze  figure  that  served 
as  a  paper  weight.  It  was  a  piece  of  her  own  work  and  she 
handled  it  lovingly  with  a  curiously  sad  smile  until  a 
second  hard  sob  broke  from  her  and  pushing  it  away  she 
covered  her  face  with  her  hands. 

"Not  for  myself,  God  knows  it's  not  for  myself," 
she  whispered,  as  if  hi  extenuation.  And  mastering 
herself  with  an  effort  she  made  a  second  attempt  to 
write  but  at  the  end  of  half  a  dozen  words  rose  im- 
patiently, crumpled  the  paper  in  her  hand  and  walking 
to  the  fireplace  threw  it  among  the  blazing  logs. 

She  watched  it  curl  and  discolour,  the  writing  blackly 


112  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

distinct,  and  crumble  into  ashes.  Then  from  force  of 
habit  she  searched  for  a  cigarette  in  a  box  on  the  mantel- 
piece, but  as  she  lit  it  a  sudden  thought  arrested  her  and 
after  a  moment's  hesitation  the  cigarette  followed  the 
half -written  letter  into  the  fire. 

With  an  impatient  shrug  she  went  back  to  an  arm 
chair  and  again  tried  to  read,  but  though  her  eyes 
mechanically  followed  the  words  on  the  printed  page 
she  did  not  notice  what  she  was  reading  and  laying  the 
book  down  she  gave  up  all  further  endeavour  to  distract 
her  wandering  thoughts.  They  were  not  pleasant  and 
when,  a  little  later,  the  door  opened  she  turned  her  head 
expectantly  with  a  sigh  of  relief.  Peters  came  in  briskly. 

"I've  come  to  inquire,"  he  said  laughing,  "the  family 
pew  held  me  in  solitary  state  this  morning.  Time  was 
when  I  never  minded,  but  this  last  year  has  spoiled  me. 
I  was  booked  for  lunch  but  I  came  as  soon  as  I  could. 
Nobody  ill,  I  hope?" 

Miss  Craven  looked  at  him  for  a  moment  before 
answering  as  he  stood  with  his  back  to  the  fire,  his  hands 
clasped  behind  him,  his  face  ruddy  with  the  wind  and 
rain,  his  keen  blue  eyes  on  hers,  reliable,  unchanging. 
It  was  a  curious  chance  that  had  brought  him  —  just 
at  that  moment.  The  temptation  to  make  an  unusual 
confidence  rose  strongly.  She  had  known  him  and  trusted 
him  for  more  years  than  she  cared  to  remember.  How 
much  to  say?  Indecision  held  her. 

"You  are  always  thoughtful,  Peter,"  she  temporised. 
"I  am  afraid  there  is  no  excuse,"  with  a  little  smile; 
"Barry  rode  off  somewhere  quite  early  this  morning 
and  Gillian  went  yesterday  to  the  Horringfords.  I  expect 
her  back  to-day  in  time  for  tea.  For  myself,  I  had  gout 
or  rheumatism  or  the  black  dog  on  my  back,  I  forget 
which!  Anyhow,  I  stayed  at  home."  She  laughed  and 
pointed  to  the  cigarettes.  He  took  one,  tapping  it  on 
his  thumbnail. 


THE   SHADOW   OF   THE   EAST  113 

"You  were  alone.  Why  didn't  you  'phone?  I  should 
have  been  glad  to  escape  the  Australians.  They  are 
enormously  kind,  but  somewhat — er — overwhelming," 
he  added  with  a  quick  luagh. 

"My  dear  man,  be  thankful  I  never  thought  of  it. 
I've  been  like  a  bear  with  a  sore  head  all  day."  She 
looked  past  him  into  the  fire,  and  struck  by  a  new  note 
in  her  voice  he  refrained  from  comment,  smoking  slowly 
and  luxuriating  in  the  warmth  after  a  cold  wet  drive 
in  an  open  motor.  He  never  used  a  closed  car.  But 
some  words  she  had  used  struck  him.  "Barry  is  rid- 
ing  ?"  with  a  glance  at  the  storm  raging  outside. 

"Yes.  He  had  breakfast  at  an  unearthly  hour  and 
went  off  early.  Weather  seems  to  make  no  difference 
to  him,  but  he  will  be  soaked  to  the  skin. " 

"He's  tough,"  replied  Peters  shortly.  "I  thought 
he  must  be  out.  As  I  came  in  just  now  Yoshio  was 
hanging  about  the  hall,  watching  the  drive.  Waiting 
for  him,  I  suppose,"  he  added,  flicking  a  curl  of  ash 
into  the  fire.  "He's  a  treasure  of  a  valet,"  he  supple- 
mented conversationally.  But  Miss  Craven  let  the  ob- 
servation pass.  She  was  still  staring  into  the  leaping 
flames,  drumming  with  her  fingers  on  the  arms  of  the 
chair.  Once  she  tried  to  speak  but  no  words  came. 
Peters  waited.  He  felt  unaccountably  but  definitely  that 
she  wished  him  to  wait,  that  what  was  evidently  on  her 
mind  would  come  with  no  prompting  from  him.  He  felt 
in  her  attitude  a  tension  that  was  unusual  —  to-day  she 
was  totally  unlike  herself.  Once  or  twice  only  in  the 
course  of  a  lifelong  friendship  she  had  shown  him  her 
serious  side.  She  had  turned  to  him  for  help  then  —  he 
seemed  presciently  aware  that  she  was  turning  to  him 
for  help  now.  He  prided  himself  that  he  knew  her  as 
well  as  she  knew  herself  and  he  understood  the  effort  it 
would  cost  her  to  speak.  That  he  guessed  the  cause  of 


114  THE   SHADOW   OF   THE   EAST 

her  trouble  was  no  short  cut  to  getting  that  trouble 
uttered.  She  would  take  her  own  time,  he  could  not  go 
half-way  to  meet  her.  He  must  stand  by  and  wait. 
When  had  he  ever  done  anything  else  at  Craven  Towers? 
His  eyes  glistened  curiously  in  the  firelight,  and  he 
rammed  his  hands  down  into  his  jacket  pockets  with 
abrupt  jerkiness.  Suddenly  Miss  Craven  broke  the 
silence. 

"  Peter  —  I'm  horribly  worried  about  Barry, "  the 
words  came  with  a  rush.  He  understood  her  too  well 
to  cavil. 

"Dear  lady,  so  am  I,"  he  replied  with  a  promptness 
that  did  not  console. 

"Peter,  what  is  it?"  she  went  on  breathlessly. 
"Barry  is  utterly  changed.  You  see  it  as  well  as  I. 
I  don't  understand  —  I'm  all  at  sea  —  I  want  your  help. 
I  couldn't  discuss  him  with  anybody  else,  but  you  —  you 
are  one  of  us,  you've  always  been  one  of  us.  Fair 
weather  or  foul,  you've  stood  by  us.  What  we  should 
have  done  without  you  God  only  knows.  You  care  for 
Barry,  he's  as  dear  to  you  as  he  is  to  me,  can't  you  do 
something?  The  suffering  in  his  face  —  the  tragedy 
in  his  eyes  —  I  wake  up  in  the  night  seeing  them!  Peter, 
can't  you  do  something?"  She  was  beside  him,  clutch- 
ing at  the  mantel-shelf,  shaking  with  emotion.  The 
sight  of  her  unnerved,  almost  incoherent,  shocked  him. 
He  realised  the  depth  of  the  impression  that  had  been 
made  upon  her  —  deep  indeed  to  produce  such  a  result. 
But  what  she  asked  was  impossible.  He  made  a  little 
negative  gesture  and  shook  his  head. 

"Dear  lady,  I  can't  do  anything.  And  I  wonder 
whether  you  know  how  it  hurts  to  have  to  say  so?  No 
son  could  be  dearer  to  me  than  Barry  —  for  the  sake 

of  his  mother "  his  voice  faltered  momentarily,  "but 

the  fact  remains  —  he  is  not  my  son.  I  am  only  his 


THE   SHADOW   OF  THE   EAST  115 

agent.  There  are  certain  things  I  cannot  do  and  say, 
no  matter  how  great  the  wish,"  he  added  with  a  twisted 
smile. 

Miss  Craven  seemed  scarcely  to  be  listening. 
•"It  happened  in  Japan,"  she  asserted  in  fierce  low 
tones.  "Japan!  Japan!"  she  continued  vehemently, 
"how  much  more  sorrow  is  that  country  to  bring  to 
our  family !  It  happened  in  Japan  and  whatever  it  was  — 
Yoshio  knows!  You  spoke  of  him  just  now.  You  said 
he  was  hanging  about  —  waiting  —  watching.  Peter, 
he's  doing  it  all  the  time!  He  watches  continually. 
Barry  never  has  to  send  for  him  —  he's  always  there, 
waiting  to  be  called.  When  Barry  goes  out  the  man  is 
restless  until  he  comes  in  again  —  haunting  the  hall  —  it 
gets  on  my  nerves.  Yet  there  is  nothing  I  can  actually 
complain  of.  He  doesn't  intrude,  he  is  as  noiseless  as 
a  cat  and  vanishes  if  he  sees  you,  but  you  know  that 
just  out  of  sight  he's  still  there  —  waiting  —  listening. 
Peter,  what  is  he  waiting  for?  I  don't  think  that  it  is 
apparent  to  the  rest  of  the  household,  I  didn't  notice 
it  myself  at  first.  But  a  few  months  ago  something 
happened  and  since  then  I  don't  seem  able  to  get  away 
from  it.  It  was  in  the  night,  about  two  o'clock;  I  was 
wakeful  and  couldn't  sleep.  I  thought  if  I  read  I  might 
read  myself  sleepy.  I  hadn't  a  book  in  my  room  that 
pleased  me  and  I  remembered  a  half -finished  novel  I 
had  left  in  the  library.  I  didn't  take  a  light  —  I  know 
every  turn  in  the  Towers  blindfold.  As  you  know,  to 
reach  the  staircase  from  my  room  I  have  to  pass  Barry's 
door,  and  at  Barry's  door  I  fell  over  something  hi  the 
darkness  —  something  with  hands  of  steel  that  saved  me 
from  an  awkward  tumble  and  hurried  me  down  the  pas- 
sage and  into  the  moonlit  gallery  before  I  could  find  a 
word  of  expostulation.  Yoshio  of  course.  I  was  natur- 
ally startled  and  angry  in  consequence.  I  demanded  an 


116  THE  SHADOW   OF   THE   EAST 

explanation  and  after  a  great  deal  of  hesitation  he  mut- 
tered something  about  Barry  wanting  him  —  which  is 
ridiculous  on  the  face  of  it.  If  Barry  had  really  wanted 
him  he  would  have  been  inside  the  room,  not  crouched 
outside  on  the  door  mat.  He  seemed  very  upset  and 
kept  begging  me  to  say  nothing  about  it.  I  don't  re- 
member how  he  put  it  but  he  certainly  conveyed  the 
impression  that  it  would  not  be  good  for  Barry  to  know. 
I  don't  understand  it  —  Barry  trusts  him  implicitly  —  and 
yet  this.  .  .  .  I'm  afraid,  and  I've  never  been  afraid 
in  my  life  before."  The  little  break  in  her  voice  hurt 
him.  He  felt  curiously  unable  to  cope  with  the  situa- 
tion. Her  story  disturbed  him  more  than  he  cared  to 
let  her  see  in  her  present  condition  of  unwonted  agita- 
tion. Twice  in  the  past  they  had  stood  shoulder  to 
shoulder  through  a  crisis  of  sufficient  magnitude  and  she 
had  showed  then  a  cautious  judgment,  a  reliability  of 
purpose  that  had  been  purely  masculine  in  its  strength 
and  sanity.  She  had  been  wholly  matter-of-fact  and 
unimaginative,  unswayed  by  petty  trivialities  and  broad 
in  her  decision.  She  had  displayed  a  levelness  of  mind 
which  had  almost  excluded  f  eeling  and  which'  had  enabled 
him  to  deal  with  her  as  with  another  man,  confident  of 
her  understanding  and  the  unlikelihood  of  her  succumb- 
ing unexpectedly  to  ordinary  womanly  weaknesses.  He 
had  thought  that  he  knew  her  thoroughly,  that  no  cir- 
cumstance that  might  arise  could  alter  characteristics  so 
set  and  inherent.  But  to-day  her  present  emotion 
which  had  come  perilously  near  hysteria,  showed  her  in 
a  new  light  that  made  her  almost  a  stranger.  He  was 
a  little  bewildered  with  the  discovery.  It  was  incredible 
after  all  these  years,  just  as  if  an  edifice  that  he  had 
thought  strongly  built  of  stone  had  tumbled  about  his 
ears  like  a  pack  of  cards.  He  could  hardly  grasp  it. 
He  felt  that  there  was  something  behind  it  all  —  some- 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  117 

thing  more  than  she  admitted.  He  was  tempted  to  ask 
definitely  but  second  reflection  brought  the  conviction 
that  it  would  be  a  mistake,  that  it  would  be  taking  an 
unfair  advantage.  Sufficient  unto  the  day  —  his  present 
concern  was  to  help  her  regain  a  normal  mental  poise. 
And  to  do  that  he  must  ignore  half  of  what  her  sug- 
gestions seemed  to  imply.  He  felt  her  breakdown 
acutely,  he  must  say  nothing  that  would  add  to  her 
distress  of  mind.  It  was  better  to  appear  obtuse  than 
to  concur  too  heartily  in  fears,  a  recollection  of  which 
in  a  saner  moment  he  knew  would  be  distasteful  to  her. 
She  would  never  forgive  herself  —  the  less  she  had  to  for- 
get the  better.  She  trusted  him  or  she  would  never 
have  spoken  at  all.  That  he  knew  and  he  was  honoured 
by  her  confidence.  They  had  always  been  friends,  but 
in  her  weakness  he  felt  nearer  to  her  than  ever  before. 
She  was  waiting  for  him  to  speak.  He  chose  the  line 
that  seemed  the  least  open  to  argument.  He  spoke  at 
last,  evenly,  unwilling  alike  to  seem  incredulous  or  over- 
anxious, his  big  steady  hand  closing  warmly  over  her 
twitching  fingers. 

"  I  don't  think  there  is  any  cause  —  any  reason  to 
doubt  Yoshio's  fidelity.  The  man  is  devoted  to  Barry. 
His  behaviour  certainly  sounds  —  curious,  but  can  be 
attributed  I  am  convinced  to  over-zealousness.  He  is 
an  alien  in  a  strange  land,  cut  off  from  his  own  natural 
distractions  and  amusements,  and  with  time  on  his  hands 
his  devotion  to  his  master  takes  a  more  noticeable  form 
than  is  usual  with  an  ordinary  English  man-servant. 
That  he  designs  any  harm  I  cannot  believe.  He  has 
been  with  Barry  a  long  time  —  on  the  several  occasions 
when  he  stayed  with  him  at  your  house  in  London  did 
you  notice  anything  in  his  behaviour  then  similar  to  the 
attitude  you  have  observed  recently?  No?  Then  I  take 
it  that  it  is  due  to  the  same  anxiety  that  we  ourselves 


118  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

have  felt  since  Barry's  return.  Only  in  Yoshio's  case 
it  is  probably  based  on  definite  knowledge,  whereas  ours 
is  pure  conjecture.  Barry  has  undoubtedly  been  up 
against  something  —  momentous.  Between  ourselves  we 
can  admit  the  fact  frankly.  It  is  a  different  man  who 
has  come  back  to  us  —  and  we  can  only  carry  on  and 
notice  nothing.  He  is  trying  to  forget  something.  He 
has  worked  like  a  nigger  since  he  came  home,  slogging 
away  down  at  the  estate  office  as  if  he  had  his  bread  to 
earn.  He  does  the  work  of  two  men  —  and  he  hates  it. 
I  see  him  sometimes,  forgetful  of  his  surroundings,  star- 
ing out  of  the  window,  and  the  look  on  his  face  brings 
a  confounded  lump  into  my  throat.  Thank  God  he's 

young  —  perhaps  in  time "  he  shrugged  and  broke  off 

inconclusively,  conscious  of  the  futility  of  platitudes. 
And  they  were  all  he  had  to  offer.  There  was  no  sug- 
gestion he  could  make,  nothing  he  could  do.  It  was 
repetition  of  history,  again  he  had  to  stand  by  and  watch 
suffering  he  was  powerless  to  aid,  powerless  to  relieve. 
The  mother  first  and  now  the  son  —  it  would  seem  almost 
as  if  he  had  failed  both.  The  sense  of  helplessness  was 
bitter  and  his  face  was  drawn  with  pain  as  he  stared 
dumbly  at  the  window  against  which  the  storm  was 
beating  with  renewed  violence.  The  sight  of  the  angry 
elements  brought  almost  a  feeling  of  relief;  it  would  be 
something  that  he  could  contend  with  and  overcome, 
something  that  would  go  towards  mitigating  the  galling 
sense  of  impotence  that  chafed  him.  He  felt  the  room 
suddenly  stifling,  he  wanted  the  cold  sting  of  the  rain 
against  his  face,  the  roar  of  the  wind  in  the  trees  above 
his  head.  Abruptly  he  buttoned  his  jacket  hi  prepara- 
tion for  departure.  Miss  Craven  pulled  herself  together. 
She  laid  a  detaining  hand  on  his  arm.  "Peter,"  she 
said  slowly,  "do  you  think  that  Barry's  trouble  has  any 
connection  with  —  my  brother?  The  change  of  pictures 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  119 

in  the  dining-room  —  it  was  so  strange.  He  said  it  was 
a  reparation.  Do  you  think  Barry  —  found  out  some- 
thing in  Japan?" 

Peter  shook  his  head.    "  God  knows,"  he  said  gruffly. 

For  a  moment  there  was  silence,  then  with  a  sigh  Miss 
Craven  moved  towards  a  bell. 

"You'll  stay  for  tea?" 

"Thanks,  no.  I've  got  a  man  coming  over,  I'll  have 
to  go.  Give  my  love  to  Gillian  and  tell  her  I  shall  not 
forgive  her  soon  for  deserting  me  this  morning.  Has  she 
lost  that  nasty  cough  yet?" 

"Almost.  I  didn't  want  her  to  go  to  the  Horring- 
fords,  but  she  promised  to  be  careful."  Miss  Craven 
paused,  then: 

"What  did  we  do  without  Gillian,  Peter?"  she  said 
with  an  odd  little  laugh. 

"  'You've  got  me  guessing,'  as  Atherton  says.  She's 
a  witch,  bless  her!"  he  replied,  holding  out  his  hands. 
Miss  Craven  took  them  and  held  them  for  a  moment. 

"You're  the  best  pal  I  ever  had,  Peter,"  she  said 
unsteadily,  "and  you've  given  all  your  life  to  us. 
Cravens. " 

The  sudden  gripping  of  his  hands  was  painful,  then 
he  bent  his  head  and  unexpectedly  put  his  lips  to  the 
fingers  he  held  so  closely. 

"  I'm  always  here  —  when  you  want  me, "  he  said 
huskily,  and  was  gone. 

Miss  Craven  stood  still  looking  after  him  with  a  curious 
smile. 

"Thank  God  for  Peter,"  she  said  fervently,  and  went 
back  to  her  station  by  the  window.  It  was  considerably 
darker  than  before,  but  for  some  distance  the  double 
avenue  leading  to  the  stables  was  visible.  As  she 
watched,  playing  absently  with  the  blind-cord,  her  mind 
dwelt  on  the  long  connection  between  Peter  Peters  and 


120  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

her  family.  Thirty  years  —  the  best  of  his  life.  And  in 
exchange  sorrow  and  an  undying  memory.  The  woman 
he  loved  had  chosen  not  him  but  handsome  inconsequent 
Barry  Craven  and,  for  her  choice,  had  reaped  misery 
and  loneliness.  And  because  he  had  known  that  in~ 
evitably  a  day  would  come  when  she  would  need  assist' 
ance  and  support  he  had  sunk  his  own  feelings  and  re- 
tained his  post.  Her  brief  happiness  had  been  hard  to 
watch  —  the  subsequent  long  years  of  her  desertion  a 
protracted  torture.  He  had  raged  at  his  own  helpless- 
ness. And  ignorant  of  his  love  and  the  motive  that  kept 
him  at  Craven  Towers  she  had  come  to  lean  on  him  and 
refer  all  to  him.  But  for  his  care  the  Craven  properties 
would  have  been  ruined,  and  the  Craven  interests 
neglected  beyond  repair. 

For  some  time  before  her  sister-in-law's  death  Miss 
Craven  had  known,  as  only  a  woman  can  know,  but 
now  for  the  first  time  she  had  heard  from  his  lips  a 
half -confession  of  the  love  that  he  had  guarded  jealously 
for  thirty  years. 

The  unusual  tears  that  to-day  seemed  so  curiously 
near  the  surface  rose  despite  her  and  she  blinked  the 
moisture  from  her  eyes  with  a  feeling  of  irritated  shame. 

Then  a  figure,  almost  indistinguishable  in  the  gloom, 
coming  from  the  stables,  caught  her  eye  and  she  gave 
«i  sharp  sigh  of  relief. 

He  was  walking  slowly,  his  hands  deep  in  his  pockets, 
his  shoulders  hunched  against  the  storm  of  wind  and  rain 
that  beat  on  his  broad  back.  His  movements  suggested 
intense  weariness,  yet  nearing  the  house  his  step  lagged 
even  more  as  if,  despite  physical  fatigue  and  the  in- 
clement weather,  he  was  rather  forcing  himself  to  return 
than  showing  a  natural  desire  for  shelter. 

There  was  in  his  tread  a  heaviness  that  contrasted 
forcibly  with  the  elasticity  that  had  formerly  been 
characteristic. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  121 

As  he  passed  close  by  the  window  where  Miss  Craven 
was  standing  she  saw  that  he  was  splashed  from  head  to 
foot.  She  thought  with  sudden  compassion  of  the  horse 
that  he  had  ridden.  She  had  been  in  the  stables  only 
a  few  weeks  before  when  he  had  handed  over  another 
jaded  mud-caked  brute  trembling  in  every  limb  and 
showing  signs  of  merciless  riding  to  the  old  head  groom 
who  had  maintained  a  stony  silence  as  was  his  duty  but 
whose  grim  face  was  eloquent  of  all  he  might  not  say. 
It  was  so  unlike  Barry  to  be  inconsiderate,  toward  ani- 
mals he  had  been  always  peculiarly  tender-hearted. 

She  hurried  out  to  the  hall,  almost  cannoning  with  a 
little  dark-clad  figure  who  gave  way  with  a  deep  Oriental 
reverence.  "Master  very  wet,"  he  murmured,  and 
vanished. 

"There's  some  sense  in  him,"  she  muttered  grudg- 
ingly. And  quite  suddenly  a  wholly  unexpected  sym- 
pathy dawned  for  the  inscrutable  Japanese  whom  she 
had  hitherto  disliked.  But  she  had  no  time  to  dwell  on 
her  unaccountable  change  of  feeling  for  through  the  glass 
of  the  inner  door  she  saw  Craven  in  the  vestibule  strug- 
gling stimy  to  rid  himself  of  a  dripping  mackintosh.  It 
had  been  no  protection  for  the  driving  rain  had  pene- 
trated freely,  and  as  he  fumbled  at  the  buttons  with 
slow  cold  fingers  the  water  ran  off  him  in  little  trickling 
streams  on  to  the  mat. 

She  had  no  wish  to  convey  the  impression  that  she  had 
been  waiting  for  him.  She  met  him  as  if  by  accident, 
hailing  him  with  surprise  that  rang  genuine. 

"Hallo,  Barry,  just  in  time  for  tea!  I  know  you  don't 
usually  indulge,  but  you  can  do  an  act  of  grace  on  this 
one  occasion  by  cheering  my  solitude.  Peter  looked  in 
for  ten  minutes  but  had  to  hurry  away  for  an  engagement, 
and  Gillian  is  not  yet  back. " 

His  face  was  haggard  but  he  smiled  in  reply,   "All 


122  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

right.  In  the  library?  Then  in  five  minutes  —  I'm  a 
little  wet." 

In  an  incredibly  short  time  he  joined  her,  changed 
and  immaculate.  She  looked  up  from  the  tea  urn  she 
was  manipulating,  her  eyes  resting  on  him  with  the 
pleasure  his  physical  appearance  always  gave  her. 
"You've  been  quick!"  "Yoshio,"  he  replied  laconi- 
cally, handing  her  buttered  toast. 

He  ate  little  himself  but  drank  two  cups  of  tea,  smoking 
the  while  innumerable  cigarettes.  Miss  Craven  chatted 
easily  until  the  tea  table  was  taken  away  and  Craven 
had  withdrawn  to  his  usual  position  on  the  hearthrug, 
lounging  against  the  mantelshelf. 

Then  she  fell  silent,  looking  at  him  furtively  from  time 
to  time,  her  hands  restless  in  her  lap,  nerving  herself 
to  speak.  What  she  had  to  say  was  even  more  difficult 
to  formulate  than  her  confidence  to  Feters.  But  it  had 
to  be  spoken  and  she  might  never  find  a  more  favourable 
moment.  She  took  her  courage  in  both  hands. 

"I  want  to  speak  to  you  of  Gillian,"  she  said  hesi- 
tatingly. 

He  looked  up  sharply.  "What  of  Gillian?"  The  ques- 
tion was  abrupt,  an  accent  almost  of  suspicion  in  hip 
voice  and  she  moved  uneasily. 

"Bless  the  boy,  don't  jump  down  my  throat,"  she 
parried,  with  a  nervous  little  laugh;  "nothing  of  Gillia* 
but  what  is  sweet  and  good  and  dear  .  .  .  and  yet 
that's  not  all  the  truth  —  it's  more  than  that.  I  find  it 
hard  to  say.  It's  something  serious,  Barry,  about  Gil- 
lian's future,"  she  paused,  hoping  that  he  would  volun- 
teer some  remark  that  would  make  her  task  easier.  But 
he  volunteered  nothing  and,  stealing  a  glance  at  him 
she  saw  on  his  face  an  expression  of  peculiar  stoniness 
to  which  she  had  lately  become  accustomed.  The  new 
taciturnity,  which  she  still  found  so  strange,  seemed  to 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  123 

have  fallen  on  him  suddenly.    She  stifled  a  sigh  and 
hurried  on: 

"I  wonder  if  the  matter  of  Gillian's  future  has  ever 
occurred  to  you?  It  has  been  in  my  mind  often  and 
lately  I  have  had  to  give  it  more  serious  attention.  Time 
has  run  away  so  quickly.  It  is  incredible  that  nearly 
two  years  have  passed  since  she  became  your  ward.  She 
will  be  twenty-one  in  March  —  of  age,  and  her  own  mis- 
tress. The  question  is  —  what  is  she  to  do?" 

"Do?    There  is  no  question  of  her  doing  anything," 
he  replied  shortly.    "You  mean  that  her  coming  of  age 
will  make  no  difference  —  that  things  will  go  on  as  they 
are?  "  Miss  Craven  eyed  him  curiously. 
"Yes.    Why  not?" 

"You  know  less  of  Gillian  than  I  thought  you  did." 
The  old  caustic  tone  was  sharp  in  her  voice. 
He  looked  surprised.  "Isn't  she  happy  here?" 
"Happy!"  Miss  Craven  laughed  oddly.  "It's  a 
little  word  to  mean  so  much.  Yes,  she  is  happy  —  happy 
as  the  day  is  long  —  but  that  won't  keep  her.  She  loves 
the  Towers,  she  is  adored  on  the  estate,  she  has  a  corner 
in  that  great  heart  of  hers  for  all  who  live  here  —  but 
still  that  won't  keep  her.  In  her  way  of  thinking  she 
has  a  debt  to  pay,  and  all  these  months,  studying, 
working,  hoping,  she  has  been  striving  to  that  end.  She 
is  determined  to  make  her  own  way  in  the  world,  to 

repay  what  has  been  expended  on  her " 

"That's  dam'  nonsense,"  he  interrupted  hotly. 
"It's  not  nonsense  from  Gillian's  point  of  view,"  Miss 
Craven  answered  quickly,  "it's  just  common  honesty. 
We  have  argued  the  matter,  she  and  I,  scores  of  times. 
I  have  told  her  repeatedly  that  in  view  of  your  guard- 
ianship you  stand  in  loco  parentis  and,  therefore,  as 
long  as  she  is  your  ward  her  maintenance  and  artistic 
education  are  merely  her  just  due,  that  there  can  be  »o 


124  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

question  of  repayment.  She  does  not  see  it  in  that 
light.  Personally  —  though  I  would  not  for  the  world 
have  her  know  it  —  I  understand  and  sympathize  with 
her  entirely.  Her  independence,  her  pride,  are  out  of 
all  proportion  to  her  strength.  I  cannot  condemn,  I  can 
only  admire  —  though  I  take  good  care  to  hide  my  ad- 
miration .  .  .  and  if  you  could  persuade  her  to  let 
the  past  rest,  there  is  still  the  question  of  her  future." 

"That  I  can  provide  for." 

Miss  Craven  shook  her  head. 

"That  you  can  not  provide  for,"  she  said  gravely. 

The  flat  contradiction  stirred  him.  He  jerked  upright 
from  his  former  lounging  attitude  and  stood  erect,  scowl- 
ing down  at  her  from  his  great  height.  "Why  not?" 
he  demanded  haughtily. 

Miss  Craven  shrugged.  "What  would  you  propose 
to  do?"  He  caught  the  challenge  in  her  tone  and  for 
a  moment  was  disconcerted.  "There  would  be  ways 

"  he  said,  rather  vaguely.  "Something  could  be 

arranged " 

"You  would  offer  her  —  charity?"  suggested  Miss 
Craven,  wilfully  dense. 

"Charity  be  damned." 

"Charity  generally  is  damnable  to  those  who  have  to 
suffer  it,  No,  Barry,  that  won't  do. " 

He  jingled  the  keys  in  his  pocket  and  the  scowl  on 
his  face  deepened. 

"I  could  settle  something  on  her,  something  that 
would  be  adequate,  and  it  could  be  represented  that 
some  old  investment  of  her  father's  had  turned  up  trumps 
unexpectedly." 

But  Miss  Craven  shook  her  head  again.  "Clever, 
Barry,  but  not  clever  enough.  Gillian  is  no  fool.  She 
knows  her  father  had  no  money,  that  he  existed  on  a 
pittance  doled  out  to  him  by  exasperated  relatives  which 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  125 

ceased  with  his  death.  He  told  her  plainly  in  his  last 
letter  that  there  was  nothing  in  the  world  for  her  —  ex- 
cept your  charity.  Think  of  what  Gillian  is,  Barry,  and 
think  what  she  must  have  suffered  —  waiting  for  your 
coming  from  Japan,  and,  to  a  less  extent,  in  the  de- 
pendence of  these  last  years." 

He  moved  uncomfortably,  as  if  he  resented  the  plain- 
ness of  his  aunt's  words,  and  having  found  a  cigarette 
lit  it  slowly.  Then  he  walked  to  the  window,  which  was 
still  unshuttered,  and  looked  out  into  the  darkness,  his 
back  turned  uncompromisingly  to  the  room.  His  inat- 
tentive attitude  seemed  almost  to  suggest  that  the  mat- 
ter was  not  of  vital  interest  to  him. 

Miss  Craven's  face  grew  graver  and  she  waited  long 
before  she  spoke  again.  "There  is  also  another  reason 
why  I  have  strenuously  opposed  Gillian's  desire  to  make 
her  own  way  in  the  world,  a  reason  of  which  she  is 
ignorant.  She  is  not  physically  strong  enough  to  at- 
tempt to  earn  her  own  living,  to  endure  the  hard  work, 
the  privations  it  would  entail.  You  remember  how 
bronchitis  pulled  her  down  last  year;  I  am  anxious  about 
her  this  winter.  She  is  constitutionally  delicate,  she 
may  grow  out  of  it  —  or  she  may  not.  Heaven  knows 
what  seeds  of  mischief  she  has  inherited  from  such  parents 
as  hers.  She  needs  the  greatest  care,  everything  in  the 
way  of  comfort  —  she  is  not  fitted  for  a  rough  and  tumble 
life.  And,  Barry,  I  can't  tell  her.  It  would  break  her 
heart," 

Her  eyes  were  fixed  on  him  intently  and  she  waited 
with  eager  breathlessness  for  him  to  speak.  But  when 
at  length  he  answered  his  words  brought  a  look  of  swift 
disappointment  and  she  relaxed  in  her  chair  with  an  air 
of  weary  despondency.  He  replied  without  moving. 

•     ii't  you  arrange  something,  Aunt  Caro?    You  are 
v  r     !<''?•'•--  of  Gillian,  you  would  miss  her  society  terribly; 


126  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

cannot  you  persuade  her  that  she  is  necessary  to  you  — 
that  it  would  be  possible  for  her  to  work  and  still  remain 
with  you?  I  know  that  some  day  you  will  want  to  go 
back  to  your  own  house  in  London,  to  take  up  your  own 
interests  again,  and  to  travel.  I  can't  expect  you  to 
take  pity  much  longer  on  a  lonely  bachelor.  You  have 
given  up  much  to  help  me  —  it  cannot  go  on  for  ever. 
For  what  you  have  done  I  can  never  thank  you,  it  is 
beyond  thanks,  but  I  must  not  trade  on  your  generosity. 
If  you  put  it  to  Gillian  that  you,  personally,  do  not  want 
to  part  with  her  —  that  she  is  dear  to  you  —  it's  true,  isn't 
it?"  he  added  with  sudden  eagerness.  And  in  surprise 
at  her  silence  he  swung  on  his  heel  and  faced  her.  She 
was  leaning  back  in  the  big  armchair  in  a  listless  manner 
that  was  not  usual  to  her. 

"I  am  afraid  you  cannot  count  on  me,  Barry,"  she 
said  slowly.  He  stared  in  sheer  amazement. 

"What  do  you  mean,  Aunt  Caro? — you  do  care  for 
her,  don't  you?" 

"Care  for  her?"  echoed  Miss  Craven,  with  a  laugh 
that  was  curiously  like  a  sob,  "yes,  I  do  care  for  her. 
I  care  so  much  that  I  am  going  to  venture  a  great  deal 
—  for  her  sake.  But  I  cannot  propose  that  she  should 
live  permanently  with  me  because  all  future  permanen- 
cies have  been  taken  out  of  my  hands.  I  hate  talking 
about  myself,  but  you  had  to  know  some  day,  this  only 
accelerates  it.  I  have  not  been  feeling  myself  for  some 
time  —  a  little;*  while  ago  I  went  to  London  for  definite 
information.  The  man  had  the  grace  to  be  honest  with 
me  —  he  bade  me  put  my  house  in  order. "  Her  tone 
left  no  possibility  of  misunderstanding.  He  was  across 
the  room  in  a  couple  of  hasty  strides,  on  his  knees  beside 
her,  his  hands  clasped  over  hers. 

"Aunt  Caro!"  The  genuine  and  deep  concern  in 
his  voice  almost  broke  her  self-control.  She  turned  her 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  127 

head,  catching  her  lip  between  her  teeth,  then  with  a 
little  shrug  she  recovered  herself  and  smiled  at  him. 

"  Dear  boy,  it  must  come  some  day  —  it  has  come  a 
little  sooner  than  I  expected,  that  is  all.  I'm  not 
grumbling,  I've  had  a  wonderful  life  —  I've  been  able  to 
do  something  with  it.  I  have  not  sat  altogether  idle 
in  the  market-place. " 

"But  are  you  sure?   Doctors  are  not  infallible." 

"Quite  sure,"  she  answered  steadily;  "the  man  I 
went  to  was  very  kind,  very  thorough.  He  insisted  I 
should  have  other  opinions.  There  was  a  council  of 
big-wigs  and  they  all  arrived  at  the  same  conclusion, 
which  was  at  least  consoling.  A  diversity  of  opinion 
would  have  torn  my  nerves  to  tatters.  I  couldn't  tell 
you  before,  it  would  have  worried  me.  I  hate  a  fuss. 
I  don't  want  it  mentioned  again.  You  know  —  and 
there's  an  end  of  it."  She  squeezed  his  hands  tightly 
for  a  moment,  then  got  up  abruptly  and  went  to  the 
fireplace. 

"  I  have  only  one  regret  —  Gillian, "  she  said  as  he 
followed  her.  "You  see  now  that  it  is  impossible  for 
me  to  make  a  definite  home  for  her,  even  supposing  that 
she  were  to  agree  to  such  a  proposal.  They  gave  me 
two  or  three  years  at  the  longest  —  it  might  be  any  time. " 

Craven  stood  beside  her  miserable  and  tongue-tied. 
Her  news  affected  him  deeply,  he  was  stunned  with  the 
suddenness  of  it  and  amazed  at  the  courage  she  dis- 
played. She  might  almost  have  been  discoursing  on  the 
probable  death  of  a  stranger.  And  yet,  he  reflected,  it 
was  only  in  keeping  with  her  general  character.  She 
had  been  fearless  all  through  life,  and  for  her  death  held 
no  terrors. 

He  tried  to  speak  but  words  failed  him.  And  pres- 
ently she  spoke  again,  hurriedly,  disjointedly. 

"I  am  helpless.    I  can  do  nothing  for  Gillian.    If  I 


128  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

could  have  left  her  money  in  my  will,  despite  her  pride 
she  would  have  had  to  accept  it.  I  can't  even  do  that. 
At  my  death  all  I  have,  as  you  know,  goes  back  into 
the  estate.  I  have  never  saved  anything  —  there  never 
seemed  any  reason.  And  what  I  made  with  my  work 
I  gave  away.  There  is  only  you  —  only  one  way  —  Barry, 
won't  you  —  Barry!"  She  was  crying  undisguisedly, 
unconscious  even  of  the  unaccustomed  tears.  "You 
know  what  I  mean  —  you  must  know,"  she  whispered 
entreatingly,  struggling  with  emotion 

He  was  standing  rigid,  to  her  strained  fancy  he  seemed 
almost  to  have  stopped  breathing  and  there  was  in  his 
attitude  something  that  frightened  her.  It  came  to  her 
suddenly  that,  after  all,  he  was  to  all  intents  and  pur- 
poses a  stranger  to  her.  Even  the  intimacy  of  these 
last  months,  living  in  close  contiguity  to  him  in  his  own 
house  had  not  broken  down  the  barrier  that  his  sojourn 
in  Japan  had  raised.  She  understood  him  no  better 
than  on  the  day  of  his  arrival  in  Paris.  He  had  been 
uniformly  thoughtful  and  affectionate  but  had  never 
reverted  to  the  old  Barry  whom  she  had  known  so  well. 
He  had,  as  it  were,  retired  within  himself.  He  lived  his 
life  apart,  with  them  but  not  of  them,  daily  carrying 
through  the  arduous  work  he  set  himself  with  a  dogged 
determination  in  which  there  was  no  pleasure.  Yet,  be- 
yond a  certain  gravity,  to  the  casual  observer  there  was 
in  him  no  great  change.  He  entertained  frequently  and 
was  a  popular  host,  interesting  and  appearing  interested. 
Only  Miss  Craven  and  Peters,  more  intimate,  saw  the 
effort  that  he  made.  To  Miss  Craven  it  seemed  some- 
times as  if  he  were  deliberately  living  through  a  self- 
appointed  period  —  she  had  found  herself  wondering  what 
cataclysm  would  end  it.  She  was  conscious  of  the  im- 
pression, which  she  tried  vainly  to  dismiss  as  absurd, 
of  living  over  an  active  ^volcano.  ,aWhat  would  be  the 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

result  of  the  upheaval  when  it  came?  She  had  prayed 
earnestly  for  some  counter-distraction  that  might  become 
powerful  enough  to  surmount  the  tragic  memory  with 
which  he  lived  —  a  memory  she  was  convinced  and  the 
tragedy  was  present  in  his  face.  She  had  cherished  a 
hope,  born  in  the  early  days  of  their  return  to  Craven 
Towers  and  maintained  in  the  face  of  seeming  improba- 
bility of  fulfilment,  that  had  grown  to  be  an  ardent 
desire.  In  the  realization  of  that  hope  she  thought  she 
saw  his  salvation.  With  the  knowledge  of  her  own  pre- 
carious hold  on  life  she  clung  even  more  closely  to  what 
had  become  the  strongest  wish  she  had  ever  known. 
She  had  never  deluded  herself  into  imagining  the  con- 
summation of  her  wish  imminent,  she  had  frankly  ac- 
knowledged to  herself  that  his  inscrutability  was  im- 
penetrable, and  now  hope  seemed  almost  extinguished. 
She  realized  it  with  a  feeling  of  helplessness.  And  yet  she 
had  a  curious  impulse,  an  inner  conviction  that  urged 
with  a  peremptoriness  that  over-rode  subterfuge.  She 
would  speak  plainly,  be  the  consequences  what  they 
were.  It  was  for  the  ultimate  happiness  of  the  two 
beings  whom  she  loved  best  on  earth  —  for  that  surely 
she  might  venture  something.  She  had  never  been 
afraid  of  plain  speaking,  it  would  be  strange  if  she  let 
convention  deter  her  now.  Convention!  it  had  wrecked 
many  a  life  —  so  had  interference,  she  thought  with  sud- 
den racking  indecision.  What  if  by  interference  she 
hindered  now,  rather  than  helped?  What  if  speech  did 
more  mischief  than  silence?  Irresolutely  she  wavered, 
and  to  her  indecision  there  came  suddenly  the  further 
disturbing  thought  —  if  Barry  acceded  to  her  earnest  wish 
what  ground  had  she  for  pre-supposing  that  it  would 
result  in  his  happiness?  She  had  no  definite  knowledge, 
no  positive  assurance  wherewith  to  press  her  request. 
The  inmost  feelings  of  both  were  hidden  from  her.  Her 


ISO  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

meddling  might  only  bring  more  sorrow  to  him  who 
seemed  already  weighed  down  under  a  crushing  burden 
of  grief.  Gratitude  and  an  intense  admiration  she  knew 
existed.  But  between  admiration  and  any  deeper  feel- 
ing there  was  a  wide  gulf.  And  yet  what  might  not  be 
hidden  behind  the  grave  seriousness  of  those  great  dark 
eyes  that  looked  with  apparently  equal  frankness  at 
every  member  of  the  household?  Months  spent  in  the 
proximity  of  an  unusually  handsome  man,  the  romance 
of  the  tie  between  them  —  it  was  an  experience  that  any 
woman,  least  of  all  an  unsophisticated  convent-bred  girl, 
could  hardly  pass  through  unscathed.  It  was  surely 
enough  to  gamble  on,  she  reflected  with  grim  humour 
that  did  not  amuse.  It  was  a  great  hazzard,  the  highest 
stakes  she  had  ever  played  for  who  had  never  been 
afraid  of  losing.  The  thought  spurred  her.  If  it  was 
to  be  the  last  throw  then  let  there  be  no  hesitation.  A 
reputation  for  courage  and  coolness  had  gone  with  her 
through  life. 

She  turned  to  him  abruptly,  all  indecision  gone,  com- 
plete mistress  of  herself  again. 

"Barry,  don't  you  understand?"  she  said  with  slow 
distinctness.  "I  want  you  to  ask  Gillian  to  marry 
you." 

He  started  as  if  she  had  stabbed  him. 

"Good  God,"  he  cried  violently,  "you  don't  know 
what  you  are  saying!"  And  from  his  tortured  face  she 
averted  her  eyes  hastily,  sick  at  heart.  But  she  held 
her  ground,  aware  that  retreat  was  not  now  possible. 

She  answered  gently,  steadying  her  voice  with  diffi- 
culty. 

"Is  it  so  extraordinary  that  I  should  wish  it,  should 
hope  for  it?  I  care  for  you  both  so  deeply.  To  know 
that  your  mother's  place  would  be  filled  by  one  who  is 
worthy  to  follow  her  —  how  worthy  only  I,  who  have 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  131 

been  admitted  to  her  high  ideals,  appreciate;  to  know 
that  there  would  be  the  happiness  of  home  ties  here  for 
you,  to  know  that  I  leave  Gillian  safe  in  your  hands  — 
it  would  make  my  going  very  easy,  Barry. " 

His  head  was  down  on  his  arms  on  the  mantelshelf, 
his  face  hidden  from  her.  "  Gillian  —  safe  —  in  my  hands 
—  my  God!"  he  groaned,  and  shuddered  like  a  man  in 
mortal  agony. 

All  the  deep  love  she  had  for  him,  all  the  fears  she 
entertained  for  him  leaped  up  in  her  with  sudden 
strength,  forcing  utterance  and  breaking  down  the 
reticence  she  had  imposed  upon  herself.  She  caught 
his  arm. 

"Barry,  what  is  it  —  for  heaven's  sake  speak!  Do 
you  think  I  have  been  blind  all  these  months,  that  I 
have  seen  nothing?  Can't  you  tell  me  —  anything? " 
her  voice,  quivering  with  emotion,  was  strange  to  him, 
strange  enough  to  recall  him  to  himself.  He  straightened 
slowly  and  drew  away  from  her  with  a  little  shiver. 
"There  is  nothing  I  can  tell  you,"  he  replied  dully, 
"  nothing  that  I  can  explain,  only  this  —  2  went  through 
hell  in  Japan.  I  don't  want  any  sympathy  —  it  was  my 
own  fault,  my  own  doing.  .  .  .  Just  now  I  made  a  fool 
of  myself,  I  was  off  my  guard,  your  words  startled  me. 
Forget  it,  you  can  do  me  no  good  by  remembering. " 

He  made  an  abrupt  movement  as  if  to  leave  the  room 
but  Miss  Craven  stood  squarely  in  front  of  him,  her 
chin  raised  stubbornly.  She  knew  now  that  she  was 
face  to  face  with  something  even  more  terrible  than  she 
had  imagined.  He  had  avoided  a  definite  answer.  By 
all  reasoning  she  should  have  accepted  his  rebuff  but 
intuition,  stronger  than  reason,  impelled  her.  If  he 
went  now  it  would  be  the  end.  She  knew  that  positively. 
The  question  could  never  be  opened  up  again.  She  could 
not  let  it  pass  without  a  final  effort.  It  was  inconceivable 


132  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

that  this  shadow  could  always  lie  across  his  life.  What- 
ever tragical  event  had  occurred  belonged  to  the  past  — 
surely  the  future  might  hold  some  alleviation,  some  hap- 
piness that  might  compensate  for  the  sorrow  that  had 
lined  his  face  and  brought  the  silver  threads  that  gleamed 
in  his  thick  dark  hair.  Surely  in  the  care  for  another 
life  memory  might  be  dulled  and  there  might  dawn  for 
Mm  a  new  hope,  a  new  peace.  Despite  his  broken  sug- 
gestive words  her  trust  in  him  was  still  maintained;  she 
had  no  fear  for  Gillian  —  with  him  her  future  would  be 
assured.  And  there  seemed  no  other  alternative.  Her 
confidence  in  herself  furthermore  was  not  shaken,  she 
had  a  deep  unalterable  conviction  that  the  wish  for  the 
union  she  so  desired  was  based  upon  something  deeper 
than  mere  fancy.  It  was  not  anything  that  she  could 
put  into  words  or  even  into  concrete  thought,  but  the 
belief  was  strong.  It  was  a  vivid  assurance  that  went 
beyond  reasoning,  that  made  it  possible  for  her  to  speak 
again. 

"Are  you  going  to  let  the  past  dominate  the  rest  of 
your  life,"  she  asked  slowly,  "is  the  future  to  count  for 
nothing?  There  are,  in  all  probability,  many  years  ahead 
of  you  —  cannot  you,  in  them,  obliterate  what  has  gone 
before?" 

He  turned  from  her  with  a  hopeless  gesture  and  a 
muttered  word  she  could  not  catch.  But  he  did  not  go 
as  she  feared  he  would.  He  lingered  in  the  room,  star- 
ing into  the  heart  of  the  glowing  fire  and  Miss  Craven 
played  her  last  card. 

"And  —  Gillian?"  she  said  firmly,  all  the  Craven  ob- 
stinacy in  her  voice,  and  waited  long  for  his  answer. 
When  it  came  it  was  flat,  monotonous. 

"  I  cannot  marry  her.    I  cannot  marry  —  anybody. " 

"Are  you  married  already?"  The  question  escaped 
before  she  could  bite  it  back.  With  a  quickening  heart- 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  158 

beat  she  awaited  an  outburst,  a  retort  that  would  end 
everything.  But  he  answered  quietly,  in  the  same  tone- 
less voice:  "No,  I  am  not  married." 

She  caught  at  the  loop-hole  it  seemed  to  offer.  "If 

there  is  no  bar "  she  began  eagerly,  but  he  cut  her 

short.  "I  have  done  with  all  that  sort  of  thing,"  he 
said  harshly. 

"Why?"  she  persisted,  with  a  doggedness  that 
matched  his  own.  "If  you  have  known  sorrow,  does 
that  necessarily  mean  that  you  can  never  again  know 
happiness?  Must  you  for  a  —  a  memory,  turn  your  back 
irrevocably  on  any  chance  that  may  restore  your  peace  of 
mind?  I  believe  that  such  a  chance  is  waiting  for  you. " 

He  looked  at  her  with  strange  intentness.  "For 
me.  ..."  he  smiled  bitterly.  "  If  you  only  knew ! " 

"I  only  know  that  you  are  hesitating  at  what  most 
men  would  jump  at,"  she  retorted,  suddenly  conscious 
of  strained  nerves  and  feeling  as  if  she  were  battering 
impotent ly  against  a  granite  rock-face.  His  handa 
clenched  but  he  did  not  reply  and  swift  contrition  fell 
on  her.  She  turned  to  him  impulsively.  "Forgive  me, 
Barry.  I  shouldn't  have  said  that,  but  I  want  this 
thing  so  desperately.  I  am  convinced  that  it  would 
mean  happiness  for  you,  for  you  both.  And  when  1 

think  of  Gillian  —  alone  —  fighting  against  the  world " 

She  broke  down  completely  and  he  gripped  her  hands 
with  a  strength  that  made  her  wince. 

"She'll  never  do  that  if  I  can  help  it,"  he  said  swiftly. 

Miss  Craven  looked  up  with  sudden  hope.  "You  will 
ask  her?"  she  whispered  expectantly.  He  put  her  from 
him  gently.  "I  can  promise  nothing.  I  must  think," 
he  said  deliberately,  and  there  was  in  his  face  a  look 
that  held  her  silent. 

With  uncertain  feelings  she  watched  him  leave  the 
room. 


134  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

Inevitable  re-action  set  in,  doubts  overwhelmed  her. 
Had  she  done  what  was  best  or  had  she  blundered 
irretrievably?  She  went  unsteadily  to  a  chair,  extraor- 
dinarily tired,  exhausted  in  her  new  weakness  by  the 
emotional  strain  through  which  she  had  passed.  She 
was  beginning  to  be  a  little  aghast  at  what  she  had 
done,  at  the  force  that  she  had  set  moving.  And  yet 
she  had  been  actuated  by  the  highest  motives.  She  be- 
lieved implicitly  that  the  joining  of  the  two  lives  whose 
future  was  all  her  care  would  result  in  the  ultimate 
happiness  of  both.  They  had  grown  used  to  each  other. 
A  closer  relationship  than  that  of  guardian  and  ward 
seemed,  in  view  of  the  comparatively  slight  difference  in 
age,  a  natural  outcome  of  the  intimacy  into  which  they 
had  been  thrown.  It  was  not  without  precedent;  similar 
events  had  happened  before  and  would  doubtless  happen 
again,  she  argued,  striving  to  stifle  the  still  lingering 
doubt  that  whispered  that  she  had  gone  beyond  her 
prerogative.  And  what  she  had  done  was  in  a  way  in- 
explicable even  to  herself.  All  through  she  had  felt  that 
involuntary  forceful  impulse  that  had  been  almost 
fatalistic,  she  had  urged  through  the  prompting  of  an 
inward  conviction.  She  had  perhaps  attached  too  much 
importance  to  it,  her  own  wish  had  been  magnified  until 
it  assumed  the  appearance  of  fate. 

Her  closed  eyes  quivered  as  she  leaned  back  in  the 
chair. 

She  had  done  it  for  the  best,  she  kept  repeating 
mechanically  to  herself,  to  try  and  bring  happiness  into 
his  life;  to  insure  the  safety  of  the  girl  who  had  become 
so  dear  to  her.  Had  it  been  his  thought  too,  even  before 
she  spoke?  His  manner  had  been  so  strange.  He  had 
recoiled  from  her  suggestion  but  she  had  been  left  with 
the  impression  that  it  was  no  new  one  to  him.  She  had 
caught  a  fleeting  look,  before  his  face  had  taken  on  that 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  135 

impenetrable  mask,  that  had  given  the  lie  to  his  em- 
phatic words.  He  had  seemed  to  be  wrestling  with  him- 
self, she  had  seen  the  moisture  thick  on  his  forehead, 
his  set  face  had  looked  as  if  it  could  never  soften  again. 
When  he  had  gone  he  had  given  her  no  definite  promise 
and  she  had  no  possibility  of  guessing  what  his  decision 
would  be.  But  on  reflection  she  found  hope  in  his  de- 
ferring reply.  It  was  all  that  was  left  to  her.  She  had 
done  her  utmost,  the  rest  lay  with  him.  She  sighed 
deeply,  she  had  never  felt  such  weariness  of  mind  and 
body.  As  she  gave  way  to  a  feeling  of  growing  lassitude 
drowsiness  came  over  her  which  she  was  too  tired  to 
combat  and  for  some  time  she  slept  heavily.  She  awoke 
with  a  start  to  find  Gillian,  wide-eyed  with  concern, 
kneeling  beside  her,  the  girl's  slim  warm  fingers  clasped 
closely  round  her  sleep-numbed  hands.  Dazed  with  sud- 
den walang  she  looked  up  without  speaking  at  the  fresh 
young  face  that  bent  over  her.  Gillian  rubbed  the  cold 
hands  gently.  "Aunt  Caro,  you  were  asleep!  I've 
never  caught  you  napping  before,"  she  laughed,  but  a 
hint  of  anxiety  mingled  with  the  wonder  in  her  voice. 
Miss  Craven  slowly  smiled  reassurance.  Her  weakness 
seemed  to  have  vanished  with  sleep,  she  felt  herself  once 
more  strong  enough  to  hide  from  the  searching  affec- 
tionate eyes  anything  that  might  give  pain  or  cause 
uneasiness.  She  sat  up  straighten 

"Laziness,  my  dear,  sheer  laziness,"  she  said  sturdily. 
Gillian  looked  at  her  gravely.  "Sure?"  she  asked, 
"you  are  sure  that  you  are  quite  well?  You  looked  so 
tired  —  your  face  was  quite  white. " 

"Quite  sure  —  unbeliever!  And  you  —  did  you  have  a 
good  time;  did  you  remember  to  take  your  tonic,  and 
did  you  keep  warm?" 

Gillian  laughed  softly  and  stood  up,  ticking  off  the 
items  on  her  fingers.  "I  did  have  a  good  time,  I  did 


136  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

remember  to  take  my  tonic,  and  this  heavenly  coat  has 
kept  me  as  warm  as  pie  —  Nin'a  Atherton  taught  me  that. 
That  nice  family  considerably  enlarged  my  vocabulary," 
she  added  with  enjoyment,  slipping  out  of  a  heavy  fur 
coat  and  coming  back  to  perch  on  the  arm  of  Miss 
Craven's  chair. 

"Not  yours  only,"  was  the  answer,  "Peter  was 
quoting  the  husband  this  afternoon." 

They  were  both  silent  for  a  moment  thinking  of  the 
three  charming  Americans  who  had  spent  a  couple  of 
months  at  the  Towers  the  previous  summer,  bringing 
with  them  an  adored  scrap  of  humanity  and  a  host  of 
nurses,  valets  and  maids. 

Then  Gillian  drew  her  arm  closer  around  Miss  Craven. 

"Alex  pressed  me  to  stay  until  to-morrow,  I  had  the 
greatest  trouble  to  get  away.  But  I  promised  to  come 
back  this  afternoon,  and,  do  you  know,  Aunt  Caro,  I 
had  the  queerest  feeling  this  morning.  I  thought  you 
wanted  me,  wanted  me  urgently.  As  if  you  could  ever 
want  anybody  urgently,  you  self-reliant  wonder."  She 
gave  the  shoulder  she  was  caressing  an  affectionate  hug. 
"But  it  was  odd,  wasn't  it?  I  nearly  telephoned,  and 
then  I  concluded  you  would  think  I  had  taken  leave 
of  my  senses." 

Miss  Craven  sat  very  still. 

"I  should  have,"  she  replied,  and  hoped  that  her 
voice  appeared  more  natural  than  it  sounded  to  herself. 
Gillian  laughed. 

"Anyhow,  I'm  glad  you  had  Mr.  Peters  to  cheer  your 
solitary  tea.  I  hated  to  think  of  you  being  alone. " 

"He  didn't.  He  left  early.  But  Barry  condescended 
to  take  pity  on  me. " 

"Mr.  Craven!"  There  was  the  slightest  pause  be- 
fore she  added:  "I  thought  he  scorned  le  Jive  o'clock. 
He's  not  nearly  so  domesticated  as  David. " 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST          137 

"As  who,  my  dear?"  asked  Miss  Craven,  staring. 
Gillian  gave  another  little  laugh. 

"  Oh,  that's  my  private  name  for  Mr.  Peters  —  he 
doesn't  mind  —  he  spoils  me  dreadfully  —  'the  sweet 
singer  in  Israel' — you  know.  He  has  got  the  most 
beautiful  tenor  voice  I  have  ever  listened  to. " 

"Peter  —  sing!  I've  never  heard  him  sing,"  said  Miss 
Craven  in  wonder,  and  she  looked  up  with  a  new 
curiosity.  "I've  known  him  for  thirty  years,  and  in 
less  than  that  number  of  months  you  discover  an  ac- 
complishment of  which  everybody  else  is  ignorant.  How 
did  you  manage  it,  child?" 

"By  accident,  one  evening  in  the  summer.  You  were 
dining  out,  and  Mouston  and  I  had  gone  for  a  ramble 
in  the  park  —  it's  gorgeous  there  in  the  crepuscule  —  and 
we  were  quite  close  to  the  Hermitage.  I  heard  him  and 
I  eaves-dropped  —  is  there  such  a  word?  It  was  so  lovely 
that  I  had  to  clap  and  he  came  out  and  found  an  un- 
expected audience  on  the  windowsill.  Wasn't  it  dread- 
ful? He  was  so  dear  about  it  and  explained  that  it  was 
a  very  private  form  of  amusement,  but  since  the  cat 
was  out  of  the  bag  there  was  an  end  of  the  matter,  only 
he  positively  declined  to  perform  in  public.  I  bullied 
him  into  singing  some  more,  and  then  he  walked  home 
with  me." 

"You  twist  Peter  round  your  little  finger  and  trade 
on  his  good  nature  shamelessly,"  said  Miss  Craven 
severely,  but  her  teasing  held  no  terrors. 

"He's  such  a  dear,"  the  girl  repeated  softly,  and 
slipping  off  the  arm  of  the  chair  she  went  to  the  fire 
and  knelt  down  to  put  back  a  log  that  had  fallen  on 
to  the  hearth  and  was  smouldering  uselessly.  Miss 
Craven  looked  at  her  as,  the  log  replaced,  she  still  knelt 
on  the  rug  and  held  her  hands  mechanically  to  the  blaze. 
She  had  an  intense  and  wholly  futile  longing  to  speak 


138  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

what  was  in  her  mind  and,  demanding  confidence  for 
confidence,  penetrate  the  secret  of  the  heart  that  had 
confided  to  her  all  but  this  one  thing.  Little  by  little 
through  no  pressure  but  by  mere  telepathic  sympathy, 
reserve  had  melted  away  and  hopes  and  aspirations  had 
been  submitted  and  discussed.  But  of  this  one  thing 
there  could  be  no  discussion.  Miss  Craven  realised  it 
and  stifled  a  regretful  sigh.  Even  she,  dear  as  she  knew 
herself  to  be,  might  not  intrude  so  intimately.  For  by 
such  an  intrusion  she  might  lose  all  that  she  had  gained. 
She  could  not  forfeit  the  confidence  that  had  grown  to 
mean  so  much  to  her,  it  was  too  high  a  price  to  pay 
even  for  the  knowledge  she  sought.  She  must  have 
patience,  she  thought,  as  she  ran  her  fingers  with  the 
old  gesture  through  her  grey  curls.  But  it  was  hard  to 
be  patient  when  any  moment  might  bring  the  summons 
that  would  put  her  beyond  the  ken  of  earthly  events. 
To  go,  leaving  this  problem  still  unsolved!  She  set  her 
teeth  and  sat  rigid,  gripping  the  oak  rails  of  the  chair 
until  her  fingers  ached,  battling  with  herself.  She 
looked  again  at  the  slim  kneeling  figure,  the  pale  oval 
face  half  turned  to  her,  the  thick  dark  hair  piled  high 
on  the  small  proud  head  glistening  in  the  firelight.  A 
thing  of  grace  and  beauty  —  in  mind  and  body  desirable. 
How  could  he  hesitate.  .  .  . 

"  Barry  was  riding  —  all  day  —  in  this  atrocious  weather. 
He  came  in  soaked,"  she  said  abruptly,  almost  queru- 
lously, unlike  her  usual  tolerant  intonation.  There  was 
no  immediate  answer  and  for  a  moment  she  thought 
she  had  not  been  heard.  The  girl  had  moved  slightly, 
turning  her  face  away,  and  with  a  steady  hand  was 
building  the  dying  fire  into  a  pyramid.  She  completed 
the  operation  carefully  and  sat  back  on  her  heels 
flourishing  the  tiny  brass  tongs. 

"He's  tough,"  she  said  lightly,  unconsciously  echo- 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  139 

ing  Peters'  words  and  apparently  heedless  of  the  interval 
between  Miss  Craven's  remark  and  her  own  reply.  She 
seemed  more  interested  in  the  fire  than  in  her  guardian. 
Laying  the  tongs  away  leisurely  she  came  back  to  Miss 
Craven's  chair  and  settled  down  on  the  floor  beside  her, 
her  arms  crossed  on  the  elder  woman's  knee.  She  looked 
up  frankly,  a  faint  smile  lightening  her  serious  brown 
eyes. 

"I  don't  think  Mr.  Craven  wants  any  sympathy, 
cherie,"  she  said  slowly,  "I  reserve  all  mine  for  Yoshio, 
he  fusses  so  dreadfully  when  the  'honourable  master' 
goes  for  those  tremendous  long  rides  or  is  out  hunting. 
Have  you  noticed  that  he  always  waits  in  the  hall,  to 
be  ready  at  the  first  moment  to  rush  away  and  get  dry 
clothes  and  a  hot  bath  and  all  the  other  Oriental  para- 
phernalia for  checking  chills  and  driving  the  ache  out 
of  sore  bones?  I  don't  suppose  Mr.  Craven  has  ever  had 
sore  bones  —  he  is  so  splendidly  strong  —  and  Yoshio  cer- 
tainly seems  determined  he  never  shall.  Mary  thor- 
oughly approves  of  him,  she's  a  fusser  by  nature  too; 
she  deplores  his  heathenism  but  says  he  has  more  sense 
than  many  a  Christian.  Soon  after  we  came  here  I 
found  him  in  the  hall  one  day  staring  through  the  win- 
dow, looking  the  picture  of  misery,  his  funny  little  yellow 
face  all  puckered  up.  He  saw  me  out  of  the  back  of 
his  head,  truly  he  did,  for  he  never  turned,  and  tried  to 
slip  away.  But  I  made  him  stay  and  talk  to  me.  I 
sat  on  the  stairs  and  he  folded  himself  up  on  the  mat 

—  I  can't  describe  it  any  other  way  —  and  told  me  all 
about  Japan,  and  California  and  Algeria  and  all  the  other 
queer  places  he   has  been  to  with  Mr.  Craven.    He  has 
such  a  quaint  dramatic  way  of  speaking  and  lapses  into 
unintelligible  Japanese  just  at  the  exciting  moments  — 
so  tantalising!    They  seem  to  have  been  in  some  very 

—  what  do  you  say?  —  tight  corners.    We  got  quite 


140  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

sociable.  I  was  so  interested  in  listening  to  his  descrip- 
tion of  the  wonderful  gardens  they  make  in  Japan  that 
I  never  heard  Mr.  Craven  come  in  and  did  not  realise 
that  he  was  standing  near  us  until  Yoshio  suddenly  shot 
up  and  fled,  literally  vanished,  and  left  me  planteela! 
I  felt  so  idiotic  sitting  on  the  stairs  hugging  my  knees 
and  Mr.  Craven,  all  splashed  and  muddy,  waiting  for 
me  to  let  him  pass  —  I  was  dreadfully  frightened  of  him 
in  those  days,"  the  faintest  colour  tinged  her  cheeks. 
"I  longed  for  an  earthquake  to  swallow  me  up,"  she 
laughed  and  scrambled  to  her  feet,  gathering  the  heap 
of  furs  into  her  arms  and  holding  them  dark  and  silky 
against  her  face.  "You  shouldn't  have  encouraged  in 
me  a  love  of  beautiful  furs,  Aunt  Caro, "  she  said  in- 
consequently,  with  sudden  seriousness.  "I've  sense 
enough  left  to  know  that  I  shouldn't  indulge  it  —  and 
I'm  human  enough  to  adore  them. " 

"Rubbish!  furs  suit  you  —  please  my  sense  of  the 
artistic.  I  would  not  encourage  you  if  you  had  a  face 
like  a  harvest  moon  and  no  carriage  —  I  can't  bear  slop- 
piness  in  anything,"  snapped  Miss  Craven  hi  quite  her 
old  style.  "When  do  the  Horringfords  start  for 
Egypt?"  she  added  by  way  of  definitely  changing  the 
subject. 

Gillian  rubbed  her  cheek  against  the  soft  sealskin  with 
an  understanding  smile.  It  was  hopeless  to  try  and 
curb  Miss  Craven's  generosity,  hopeless  to  attempt  to 
argue  against  it.  "Next  week,"  she  answered  the  in- 
quiry. "Tuesday,  probably.  They  stay  hi  Paris  for 
a  month  en  route;  Lord  Horringford  wants  some  data 
from  the  Louvre  and  also  to  arrange  some  preliminaries 
with  the  French  Egyptologist  who  is  joining  their  party. " 

"'Hum!    And  Alex  —  still  interested  in  mummies?" 

"More  than  ever,  she  is  full  of  enthusiasm.  She  talks 
of  dynasties  and  tribal  deities,  of  kings  and  Kas  and 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  141 

symbols  until  my  head  spins.  Lord  Horringford  teases 
her  but  it  is  easy  to  see  that  her  interest  pleases  him. 
He  says  she  is  the  mascot  of  the  expedition,  that  she 
brought  luck  to  the  digging  last  year. " 

"Alex  has  had  many  hobbies  but  never  one  that  ran 
for  two  seasons,"  said  Miss  Craven  thoughtfully;  "I  am 
glad  she  has  found  an  interest  at  last  that  promises  to 
be  permanent." 

Gillian  gathered  the  furs  closer  in  her  arms  and  made 
a  few  steps  toward  the  door.  "She  has  found  more 
than  that,"  she  said  softly,  and  the  colour  flamed  in  her 
sensitive  face.  Miss  Craven  nodded.  "You  mean  that 
in  unearthing  the  buried  treasure  of  a  dead  past  she 
has  found  the  living  treasure  of  a  man's  love?  Yes, 
and  not  any  too  soon,  poor  silly  child.  Men  like  Hor- 
ringford don't  bear  playing  with.  I  wonder  whether 
she  knows  how  near  she  has  been  to  making  shipwreck 
of  her  life." 

"  I  think  she  knows  —  now, "  said  Gillian,  with  a  little 
wise  smile  as  she  left  the  room. 

The  sound  of  her  soft  contralto  singing  an  old  French 
nursery  rhyme  echoed  faintly  back  to  the  library: 
"Mon  pere  m'a  donne  un  petit  mari, 

Mon  Dieu,  quel  horn  me!" 

And,  listening,  Miss  Craven  smiled  half-sadly,  for  the 
quaint  words  carried  her  back  to  the  days  of  her  own 
childhood.  But  the  exigencies  of  the  present  thrust 
aside  past  memories.  She  sat  on,  wrapped  in  her 
thoughts  until  the  dropping  temperature  of  the  room 
sent  through  her  a  sudden  chill,  so  she  rose  with  a  shiver 
and  a  startled  glance  at  her  watch. 

"Dry  bones  and  love,"  she  said  musingly,  "it's  a 
curious  combination!  Peter,  my  man,  you  gave  wise 
advice  there.  .  .  .  But  not  all  your  wisdom  can  help 
my  trouble.** 


CHAPTER    VI 

DECEMBER  had  brought  a  complete  change  of 
weather.  It  was  within  a  few  days  of  Christmas,  a 
typical  old-fashioned  Yuletide  with  a  firm  white  mantle 
of  snow  lying  thick  over  the  country. 

Underneath  the  ground  was  iron  and  for  two  weeks 
all  hunting  had  been  stopped. 

Craven  was  returning  to  the  Towers  after  an  absence 
of  ten  days.  The  motor  crawled  through  the  park  for 
in  places  the  frozen  road  was  slippery  as  glass  and  the 
chauffeur  was  a  cautious  North-countryman  whose  faith 
in  the  chains  locked  round  the  wheels  was  not  unlimited; 
he  was  driving  carefully,  with  a  wary  eye  for  the  worst 
patches  noted  on  the  outward  run,  and,  beside  him, 
equally  alert,  sat  Yoshio  muffled  to  the  ears  hi  an  im- 
mense overcoat,  a  shapeless  bundle. 

It  was  early  afternoon,  calm  and  clear,  and  in  the  air 
the  intense  stillness  that  succeeds  a  heavy  snowfall. 
The  pale  sun,  that  earlier  in  the  day  had  iridised  the 
snow,  was  now  too  low  to  affect  the  dead  whiteness  of 
the  scene  against  which  the  trees  showed  magnified  ami 
sharply  black.  Here  and  there  across  the  smooth  sur- 
face stretching  on  either  side  of  the  road  lay  the  curiously 
differing  tracks  of  animals.  From  the  back  seat  of  the 
car  where  he  sat  alone  Craven  marked  them  me- 
chanically. He  knew  every  separate  spoor  and  could 
have  named  the  owner  of  each;  ordinarily  they  would 
have  claimed  from  him  a  certain  interest  but  to-day  he 
passed  them  without  a  second  thought.  He  did  not 

142 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  148 

resent  the  slow  progress  of  the  car,  he  was  in  no  hurry 
to  reach  the  Towers.  He  had  come  to  a  momentous 
decision  but  shrank  from  the  action  that  must  necessarily 
follow;  once  at  the  house  he  knew  that  he  would  permit 
himself  no  further  delay,  he  would  put  his  purpose  into 
effect  at  the  earliest  opportunity  —  to-day  if  possible; 
here  there  was  still  time  —  vaguely  he  wondered  for  what? 
Not  for  reflection,  that  was  done  with.  He  had  striven 
with  all  his  strength  to  arrive  at  a  right  determination; 
he  had  thought  until  reasoning  became  a  mere  repetition 
of  fixed  ideas  moving  hi  a  circle  and  arriving  always  at 
an  unvaried  starting  point.  There  seemed  no  conse- 
quence that  he  had  not  weighed  hi  his  mind,  no  issue 
that  he  had  not  considered.  To  ponder  afresh  would 
be  to  cover  again  uselessly  ground  that  he  had  gone 
over  a  hundred  times.  Three  days  ago  he  had  made 
his  choice,  he  had  no  intention  of  departing  from  it. 
For  good  or  ill  the  thing  must  go  forward  now.  And, 
after  all,  the  ultimate  decision  did  not  lie  with  him. 
Admitting  it  his  thoughts  became  introspective. 
Throughout  his  deliberations  he  had  put  self  on  one 
side,  there  had  been  no  question  of  his  own  wishes; 
now  for  the  first  time  he  allowed  personal  considerations 
to  rise  unchecked.  For  what  did  he  hope?  He  knew 
the  reason  of  his  reluctance  to  reach  the  house  —  he  de- 
sired success  and  yet  he  feared  it,  feared  the  conse- 
quences that  might  result,  feared  the  strength  of  his 
own  will  to  persevere  in  the  course  he  had  chosen.  For 
him  there  was  no  other  way  but,  merciful  God,  it  would 
be  hard!  He  set  his  teeth  and  stared  at  the  frozen 
landscape  with  unseeing  eyes.  Since  her  outburst  four 
weeks  ago  Miss  Craven  had  not  spoken  again  of  the  wish 
that  was  nearest  her  heart,  but  he  knew  that  she  was 
waiting  for  an  answer,  knew  that  that  answer  must  be 
given.  One  way  or  the  other.  Day  had  succeeded  day 


144  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

in  torturing  indecision.  He  had  lived,  slept  with  the 
problem,  at  no  time  was  it  out  of  his  mind.  In  the 
course  of  the  long  rides  that  had  become  more  frequent, 
obtruding  during  the  monotonous  hours  spent  in  the 
estate  office,  the  problem  persisted.  In  the  sleepless 
hours  of  the  night  he  wrestled  with  it.  If  it  had  been 
a  matter  of  personal  inclination,  if  the  past  had  not  risen 
between  them  there  would  have  been  no  hesitation.  He 
would  have  gone  to  her  months  ago,  would  have  begged 
the  priceless  gift  that  she  alone  could  give.  He  wanted 
her,  almost  above  the  hope  of  salvation,  and  the  induce- 
ment to  ignore  the  past  had  been  all  but  overpowering. 
He  loved  and  desired  with  all  the  strength  of  the  pas- 
sionate nature  he  had  inherited.  He  craved  for  her  with 
an  intensity  that  was  anguish,  that  set  him  wondering 
how  far  the  power  of  endurance  reached,  how  much  a 
man  could  bear.  He  was  torn  with  the  fierce  promptings 
of  primeval  forces.  To  take  her,  willing  or  unwilling, 
despite  honour,  despite  all  that  stood  between  them,  to 
make  her  his  and  hold  her  in  the  face  of  all  the  world  — 
at  times  the  temptation  had  been  maddening.  There 
had  been  days  when  he  had  not  dared  to  look  on  her, 
when  he  had  drawn  himself  more  than  ever  apart  from 
the  common  life,  fearful  of  himself,  fearful  of  circum- 
stances that  seemed  beyond  his  ordering.  And  the 
thought  that  another  could  take  what  he  might  not  had 
engendered  an  insensate  jealousy  that  was  beyond  rea- 
son. He  did  not  recognise  himself,  he  had  not  known 
the  depths  of  his  own  nature.  If  there  had  been  no  bar, 
if  she  could  have  come  to  him  willingly,  if  there  could 
indeed  have  been  for  him  the  full  ties  of  home  —  the 
thought  was  agony.  Miss  Craven's  words  had  been  a 
sword  turning  in  an  open  wound.  To  the  burden  he 
already  carried  had  been  added  this. 
The  future  of  his  ward  had  been  his  problem  as  weU 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  145 

as  Miss  Craven's.  Only  a  little  while  ago  a  way  had 
seemed  clear,  not  a  way  to  his  own  happiness  —  by  his 
own  act  he  had  put  himself  beyond  all  possibility  of  that 
—  but  a  way  that  would  mean  security  and  happiness  for 
her  who  had  come  to  mean  more  than  life  to  him.  For 
her  safety  he  would  have  given  his  soul.  The  term  of 
his  guardianship  was  drawing  to  an  end,  in  a  few  months 
his  legal  control  over  her  terminated.  Miss  Craven  who 
had  surrendered  her  independence  for  two  years  would 
be  returning  to  her  own  home,  to  her  old  life;  it  had 
seemed  a  foregone  conclusion  that  Gillian  would  accom- 
pany her. 

But  the  double  shock  in  the  revelation  of  Miss  Craven's 
precarious  state  and  Gillian's  delicacy  had  been  stagger- 
ing. He  had  not  been  prepared  for  a  contingency  that 
seemed  to  cut  the  ground  from  under  his  feet.  With  all 
the  will  in  the  world  his  aunt  was  powerless  to  further 
the  plan  he  proposed,  any  day  might  bring  the  Great 
Summons.  And  Gillian!  The  little  persistent  cough 
rang  in  his  ears  always.  Gillian  and  poverty  —  by  day 
it  haunted  him,  he  woke  hi  the  night  sweating  at  the 
very  thought.  It  was  intolerable.  And  yet  there  ap- 
peared no  means  of  escaping  it  —  save  one.  For  a  mo- 
ment, with  a  fierce  joy,  he  saw  fate  aiding  him,  forcing 
into  his  hands  what  he  yearned  to  gather  to  himself, 
then  he  recoiled  from  even  the  thought  of  her  purity 
linked  with  the  stain  of  his  past.  He  had  racked  his 
brain  to  discover  an  alternative.  To  force  upon  her  an 
adequate  income  that  would  put  her  beyond  want  and 
the  necessity  of  work  would  be  easy  To  induce  her  to 
use  the  money  thus  provided  he  divined  would  be  im- 
possible, he  seemed  to  know  intuitively  that  her  will 
would  not  give  way  to  his.  During  these  last  weeks  he 
had  looked  at  her  with  new  understanding,  it  seemed 
incredible  that  he  had  never  before  recognised  the  deter- 


146  THE  SHADOW  OF  TffE  EAST 

mination  that  underlay  her  shy  gentleness.  Character 
shone  in  the  frank  brown  eyes,  there  was  a  firmness  that 
was  unmistakable  in  the  arched  lips  that  were  the  only 
patch  of  colour  in  her  delicate  face.  From  his  wealth 
she  would  accept  nothing.  Would  she  accept  him  —  all 
that  he  dared  offer?  It  was  no  new  idea,  the  thought 
had  been  in  his  mind  often  but  always  he  resolutely  put 
it  from  him  with  a  feeling  of  abhorrence.  It  was  an 
insult  to  her  womanhood,  an  expedient  that  nothing 
could  justify.  And  yet  step  by  step  he  was  forced  back 
upon  it  —  there  seemed  no  other  way  to  save  her  from 
herself.  Days  of  harrassing  indecision,  his  only  thought 
she,  brought  him  no  nearer  to  a  conclusion.  And  time 
was  passing.  He  had  reached  a  point  when  further  de- 
liberation was  beyond  his  power;  when  all  his  strength 
seemed  to  turn  into  hopeless  longing  that,  to  the  ex- 
clusion of  all  else,  craved  even  the  mockery  of  posses- 
sion; when  days  were  torment  and  nights  a  sleepless 
horror.  Then  change  of  scene  had  aided  final  deter- 
mination. The  factor  of  the  Scotch  estate  had  written 
of  a  sudden  and  unexpected  difficulty  for  which  he  asked 
personal  advice.  A  telegram  had  stopped  his  proposed 
visit  to  the  Towers  and  Craven  had  himself  gone  instead 
to  Scotland.  And  in  the  solitude  of  his  northern  home 
he  had  decided  on  the  only  course  that  seemed  open  to 
him.  He  would  go  to  her  with  his  poor  offer,  the  poorest 
surely  that  ever  a  man  made  to  a  woman,  and  the  rest 
would  lie  with  her.  But  how  would  she  receive  it?  He 
had  a  vision  of  the  soft  brown  eyes  blazing  with  scorn, 
of  the  slender  figure  he  ached  to  hold  in  his  arms  turn- 
ing from  him  in  cold  disgust,  and  he  clenched  his  hands 
until  the  nails  bit  deep  into  his  wet  palms. 

A  bad  skid  that  slewed  the  car  half  round  broke  his 
thoughts  and  in  a  few  minutes  they  were  at  the  house. 

Forbes,  the  elderly  butler  who  had  been  an  under 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  147 

footman  when  Peters  first  came  to  the  Towers,  was 
waiting  for  him  in  the  hall,  informative  with  the  gar- 
rulousness  of  an  old  and  privileged  servant.  A  late 
luncheon  was  waiting  —  he  sighed  patiently  on  hearing 
that  it  was  not  required  —  Miss  Craven  had  gone  to  the 
Vicarage  for  tea;  Mr.  Peters  was  expected  to  dinner  that 
night  and  he  had  telephoned  in  the  morning  to  tell  Mr. 
Craven  —  Craven  cut  him  short.  Peter's  message  could 
wait,  only  one  thing  seemed  to  matter  just  now. 

"Where  is  Miss  Locke?"  he  asked  curtly.  "In  the 
studio,  sir,"  replied  Forbes  with  resignation.  If  Mr. 
Barry  didn't  want  to  hear  what  Mr.  Peters  had  got  to 
say  he,  for  one,  was  not  going  to  press  the  matter.  Mr. 
Barry  had  had  his  own  way  of  doing  things  since  the 
days  when  he  sat  on  the  pantry  table  kicking  his  heels 
and  flourishing  stolen  jam  under  Forbes'  very  nose  —  a 
masterful  one  always,  he  was.  And  if  it  was  a  case  of 
Miss  Gillian  —  Forbes  retired  with  an  armful  of  ulster 
and  rugs  into  the  cloakroom  to  hide  a  sympathetic  grin. 

Craven  crossed  the  hall  and  went  into  the  study.  He 
looked  without  interest  through  an  accumulation  of 
letters  lying  on  the  writing  table,  then  threw  them  down 
indifferently.  Walking  to  the  fireplace  he  lit  a  cigarette 
and  stood  staring  at  the  cheerful  blaze.  At  last  he 
raised  his  head  and  gazed  with  deliberation  at  himself 
in  the  glass  over  the  mantle.  He  scowled  at  the  stern 
worn  face  reflected  in  the  mirror,  looking  curiously  at 
its  deep  cut  lines,  at  the  silver  patches  in  the  thick  brown 
hair.  Then  with  a  violent  exclamation  he  swung  ab- 
ruptly on  his  heel,  flung  the  cigarette  into  the  fire  and 
left  the  room.  He  went  upstairs  slowly,  surprised  at 
the  feeling  of  apathy  that  had  come  over  him.  In  the 
face  of  direct  action  the  high  tension  of  the  last  few 
weeks  had  snapped,  leaving  him  dull,  almost  inert,  and 
a^luctance  to  go  forward  grew  with  every  step.  But  at 


148  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

x  '          t, 

the  head  of  the  stairs  his  mood  changed  suddenly.  All 
that  the  coming  interview  meant  to  him  revealed  itself 
with  startling  clearness.  With  a  deep  breath  he  caught 
at  the  rail,  for  he  was  shaking  uncontrollably,  and 
covered  his  face  with  his  hand. 

"God!"  he  whispered,  and  again:  "God!" 

Then  he  gripped  himself  and  went  quickly  across  the 
gallery,  turning  down  the  corridor  that  led  to  the  west 
wing.  He  followed  the  oddly  twisting  passage,  contorted 
at  the  whim  of  succeeding  generations  where  rooms  had 
been  enlarged  or  abolished,  passing  rows  of  closed  doors 
and  another  staircase.  The  corridor  terminated  in  the 
room  he  was  seeking.  It  had  been  the  old  playroom;  at 
the  extreme  end  of  the  wing  it  faced  northward  and 
westward  and  was  well  suited  for  the  studio  into  which 
it  had  been  converted.  It  was  Gillian's  own  domain  and 
he  had  never  asked  to  visit  it.  As  he  reached  the  door 
he  heard  from  within  the  shrill  treble  of  a  boy's  mirth 
and  then  a  low  soft  laugh  that  made  his  heart  beat 
quicker.  He  tapped  and  went  in  and  for  a  moment 
stared  in  amazement.  He  did  not  recognise  the  room,  it 
was  a  totally  unexpected  French  atelier  tucked  away 
in  the  corner  of  a  typically  English  house. 

The  polished  rug-laid  floor,  the  fluted  folds  of  toile-de- 
genes  clothing  the  walls,  the  litter  of  sketches  and  pic- 
tures, casts  and  easels,  the  familiar  lay-figure  grotesquely 
attitudinising  in  a  corner,  above  all  the  atmosphere  car- 
ried him  straight  to  Paris.  It  was  the  room  of  an  artist, 
and  a  French  artist.  His  eyes  leaped  to  her.  She  was 
-  standing  before  a  big  easel  looking  wonderingly  over  her 
shoulder  at  the  opening  door,  the  brush  she  was  using 
poised  in  her  hand,  her  eyes  wide  with  astonishment,  a 
faint  flush  creeping  into  her  cheeks. 

In  the  picturesque  painter's  blouse,  her  brown  hair 
loosely  framing  her  face,  she  seemed  altogether  different. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  149 

He  could  not  define  wherein  lay  the  change,  he  had  no 
time  to  discriminate,  he  only  knew  that  seen  thus  she 
was  a  thousand  times  more  desirable  than  she  had  ever 
been  and  that  his  heart  cried  out  for  her  more  fiercely 
than  before.  He  looked  at  her  with  hungry  longing, 
then  quickly  —  lest  his  eyes  should  betray  him  —  from  her 
to  her  model.  A  boy  of  ten  with  an  intelligent  small 
brown  face,  a  mop  of  black  curls,  and  red  lips  parted  in 
a  mischievous  smile,  he  stood  on  the  raised  platform 
with  the  easy  assurance  of  a  professional. 

Craven  shut  the  door  behind  him  and  came  forward. 
She  turned  to  meet  him  and  the  colour  rushed  hi  a 
crimson  wave  to  the  roots  of  her  hair.  "Monsieur  .  .  . 
vous  etes  de  retour  .  .  .  mats,  soyez  le  bieiwenul"  she 
stammered,  with  surprise  unconsciously  lapsing  into 
the  language  of  childhood.  Then  she  caught  herself  up 
with  a  little  laugh  of  confusion  and  hurried  on  in  Eng- 
lish: "I  am  so  sorry  .  .  .  there  is  nobody  in  but  me. 
Will  you  have  some  tea?  It  is  only  three  o'clock,"  with 
a  glance  at  her  wrist,  "but  I  expect  you  lunched  early." 

"I  don't  want  any  tea,"  he  said  bluntly.  "I  came 
to  see  you."  He  spoke  in  French,  mindful  of  two  sharp 
ears  on  the  platform.  The  colour  in  her  face  deepened 
painfully  and  her  eyes  fell  under  his  steady  gaze.  She 
moved  slowly  back  to  the  easel. 

"If  you  could  wait  a  few  moments "  she  mur- 
mured. 

"I  don't  want  to  interrupt,"  he  said  hastily.  "Please 
finish  your  work.  You  don't  mind  if  I  stay?  I  haven't 
been  here  since  I  was  a  boy;  you  have  changed  the 
room  incredibly.  May  I  look  round?" 

She  nodded  assent  over  a  tube  of  colour,  and  returned 
to  her  study. 

Left  to  himself  he  wandered  leisurely  round  the  room, 
examining  the  pictures  and  sketches  that  were  heaped 


150  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

indiscriminately.  He  had  never  before  displayed  any 
interest  in  her  work,  and  was  now  amazed  at  what  he 
saw.  There  was  power  in  it  that  surprised  him,  that 
made  him  wonder  what  intuition  had  given  the  convent- 
bred  girl  the  knowledge  she  exhibited.  The  tardy  recog- 
nition of  (her  talent  strengthened  his  stranger  feeling 
toward  her.  He  went  thoughtfully  to  the  fireplace,  and, 
from  the  rug,  surveyed  the  room  and  its  occupants. 
The  atmosphere  recalled  old  memories  —  he  had  studied 
in  Paris  after  leaving  Oxford  —  only  one  thing  seemed 
lacking. 

"May  I  smoke?"  he  asked  abruptly. 

Gillian  turned  with  a  quick  smile. 

"But,  of  course.  What  need  to  ask?  After  Aunt 
Caro  has  been  here  for  an  hour  the  room  is  blue. " 

For  another  ten  minutes  he  watched  her  in  silence, 
free  to  look  as  he  would,  for  her  back  was  toward  him 
and  in  his  position  before  the  fire  he  was  beyond  the 
range  of  the  little  model's  inquisitive  black  eyes. 

Then  she  laid  palette  and  brushes  on  a  near  table  and 
stepped  back,  frowning  at  what  she  had  done  until  a 
smile  came  slowly  to  chase  the  creases  from  her  fore- 
head. She  spoke  without  moving,  still  looking  at  the 
canvas:  "That  is  all  for  to-day,  Danny.  The  light  has 
gone. " 

The  small  boy  stretched  himself  luxuriously,  and 
descending  from  the  platform,  joined  her  and  gazed  with 
evident  interest  at  his  portrait.  He  peered  in  un- 
conscious but  faithful  imitation  of  her  own  critical  atti- 
tude, his  head  slanted  at  the  same  angle  as  hers.  "It's 
coming  on, "  he  announced  solemnly,  and  Craven  guessed 
from  the  girl's  laugh  that  it  was  a  repetition  of  some 
remark  heard  and  stored  up  for  future  use.  The  boy 
grinned  in  response,  and  slipping  behind  her  went  to 
the  table  where  she  had  laid  her  tools.  "Can  I  cleaa 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  151 

palut?"  he  asked  hopefully,  his  hand  already  half-way 
to  the  coveted  mass  of  colour. 
"Not  to-day,  thanks,  Danny." 

"Shall    I    fetch    th'    dog,    Miss?"    more    hopefully. 
Gillian  turned  to  him  quickly. 
"He  bit  you  last  time." 

Danny  wriggled  his  feet  and  his  small  white  teeth 
flashed  in  a  wide  smile.  "He  won't  bite  I  again,"  he 
said  confidently.  "Mammy  said  'twas  'cos  he  loved 
you  and  hated  to  have  folks  near  you.  She  said  I  was 
to  whisper  in  his  ear  I  loved  you  too,  'cos  then  he 
wouldn't  touch  me.  Dad  he  says  'tis  a  damned  black 
devil,"  he  added  with  candid  relish  and  a  sidelong  glance 
of  mischief  at  his  employer. 

Gillian  laughed  and  gave  his  shoulder  a  little  pat. 
"I'm  afraid  he  is,"  she  admitted  ruefully.    The  boy 
threw  his  head  back.    "I  ain't  afeard  o'  he,"  he  said 
stoutly.   "  Shall  I  fetch  'im?  " 

"I  think  we'll  leave  him  where  he  is,  Danny,"  she 
said  gravely,  as  if  in  confidence.  "He's  probably  very 
happy.  Now  run  away  and  come  again  on  Saturday." 
She  waved  a  paint-stained  rag  at  him  and  turned  again 
to  the  picture.  Obediently  he  started  towards  the  door, 
then  hesitated,  glancing  irresolutely  at  Craven,  and  tip- 
toed back  to  the  easel. 

"Them  things  in  the  drawer,"  he  muttered  sepul- 
chrally,  in  a  voice  not  intended  to  reach  the  ears  of  the 
rather  awe-inspiring  personage  on  the  hearthrug. 
Gillian  whipped  round  contritely.  "Danny,  I  forgot 
them!"  she  apologised,  and  tweaking  a  black  curl  went 
to  a  bureau  and  produced  a  square  cardboard  box. 
Danny  tucked  it  under  his  arm  with  murmured  thanks 
and  a  duck  of  the  head,  and  crossing  the  room  noiselessly 
went  out,  closing  the  door  behind  him  softly.  Craven 
came  slowly  to  her.  She  moved  to  give  him  place  be- 


152  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

fore  the  easel.  Craven  looked  at  the  small  alert  brown 
face,  the  odd  black  eyes  dancing  with  almost  unearthly 
merriment,  the  red  lips  curving  upward  to  an  enigmat- 
ical smile,  and  his  wonder  and  admiration  grew. 

"Who  is  he?"  he  asked  curiously,  puzzled  by  a  like- 
ness he  seemed  to  recognise  dimly  and  yet  was  unable 
to  place. 

"Danny  Major  —  the  son  of  one  of  your  gamekeepers,  '* 
said  Gillian;  "his  mother  has  gipsy  blood  in  her. " 

Craven  whistled.  "I  remember,"  he  said,  interested. 
"Old  Major  was  head-keeper.  Young  Major  lost  his 
heart  to  a  gipsy  lass  and  his  father  kicked  him  out  of 
doors.  Peters,  as  usual,  smoothed  things  over  and  kept 
the  fellow  on  at  his  job,  in  spite  of  a  great  deal  of 
opposition  —  he  had  seen  the  girl  and  formed  his  own 
opinion.  I  asked  once  or  twice  and  he  said  that  it  had 
turned  out  satisfactorily.  So  this  is  the  son  —  he's  a  rum- 
looking  little  beggar. " 

Gillian  was  cleaning  brushes  at  the  side  table.  "He's 
the  terror  of  the  neighbourhood,"  she  said  smiling, 
"but  for  some  reason  he  is  a  perfect  angel  when  he 
comes  here.  It  isn't  the  chocolates,"  she  added  hastily 
as  she  saw  a  fleeting  smile  on- his  face,  "he  just  likes 
coming.  And  he  tells  me  the  most  wonderful  things 
about  the  woods  and  the  wood  beasties." 

"He  would,"  said  Craven  significantly,  "it's  in  the 
blood.  What's  this?"  he  asked,  pointing  to  a  smaller 
board  propped  face  inward  against  the  big  canvas.  For 
a  moment  she  did  not  answer  and  the  colour  flamed  into 
her  face  again.  She  put  the  brushes  away,  and  wiping 
her  fingers  on  a  cloth,  lifted  the  board  and  gave  it  into 
his  hands. 

"It's  Danny  as  I  see  him,"  she  said  in  an  odd  voice. 
And,  looking  at  it,  Craven  realised  that  the  cleverness 
of  the  painted  head  on  the  large  canvas  paled  to 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  153 

mediocrity  beside  the  brilliance  of  the  sepia  sketch  he 
held.  It  was  the  same  head  —  but  marvellously  different 
—  set  on  the  body  of  a  faun.  The  dancing  limbs  were 
pulsing  with  life,  the  tiny  hoofs  stamping  the  flower- 
strewn  earth  in  an  ecstasy  of  movement;  the  head  was 
thrown  forward,  bent  as  though  to  catch  a  distant  echo, 
and  among  the  tossing  curls  showed  two  small  curving 
horns;  to  the  enigmatical  smile  of  the  original  had  been 
added  a  subtle  touch  of  mockery,  and  the  wide  eyes 
held  a  look  of  mystical  knowledge  that  was  uncanny. 
Craven  held  it  silently,  it  seemed  an  incredible  piece  of 
work  for  the  girl  to  have  conceived.  And,  beside  him, 
she  waited  nervously  for  his  verdict,  with  close-locked 
twitching  fingers.  He  had  never  come  before,  had  never 
shown  any  interest  in  the  work  that  meant  so  much  to 
her.  She  was  hungry  for  his  praise,  fearful  of  his  cen- 
sure. If  he  saw  nothing  in  it  now  but  the  immature 
efforts  of  an  amateur!  Her  heart  tightened.  She  drew 
a  little  nearer  to  him,  her  eyes  fixed  apprehensively  on 
his  intent  face,  her  breath  coming  quickly.  At  length 
he  replaced  the  sketch  carefully.  "You  have  a  wonder- 
ful talent, "  he  said  slowly.  A  little  gasp  of  relief  escaped 
her  and  her  lips  trembled  in  spite  of  all  efforts  to  keep 
them  steady.  "You  like  it?"  she  whispered  eagerly, 
and  was  terrified  at  the  awful  pallor  that  overspread  his 
face.  For  a  moment  he  could  not  speak.  The  words, 
the  intonation!  He  was  back  again  in  Japan,  looking 
at  the  painting  of  a  lonely  fir  tree  clinging  to  a  jutting 
sea- washed  cliff  —  the  faintest  scent  of  oriental  perfume 
seemed  stealing  through  the  air.  He  drew  his  hand 
across  his  eyes.  "Merciful  God  .  .  .  not  here  .  .  . 
not  now!"  he  prayed  in  silent  agony.  Then  with  a 
desperate  effort  he  mastered  himself  and  turned  to  the 
frightened  girl  with  a  forced  smile.  "Forgive  me  —  I've 
a  beastly  headache  —  the  room  went  spinning  round  for 


154  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

a  minute,"  he  said  jerkily,  wiping  the  moisture  from  his 
forehead.  She  looked  at  him  gravely.  "I  think  you 
are  very  tired,  and  I  don't  believe  you  had  any  lunch," 
she  said  with  quiet  decision.  "I'm  going  to  make  some 
coffee.  Aunt  Caro  says  my  coffee  drinking  is  more 
vicious  than  her  smoking,"  she  went  on,  purposely  giv- 
ing him  time  to  recover  himself,  and  crossing  the  room 
she  collected  little  cups  and  a  small  brass  pot.  "Any 
how  it's  the  real  article,  and  in  spite  of  what  she  says 
Aunt  Caro  doesn't  scorn  it.  She  comes  regularly  to 
drink  my  cafe  noir  with  her  after-lunch  cigarette. " 

Craven  dropped  down  heavily  on  the  broad  cushioned 
window  seat,  his  hands  clasped  over  his  throbbing 
temples,  fighting  to  regain  his  shaken  nerve.  And  yet 
there  was  a  great  hope  dawning.  For  the  first  time  the 
threatening  vision  had  failed  to  materialise,  and  the  fact 
gave  him  courage.  If  a  time  should  come  when  it  would 
definitely  cease  to  haunt  him!  He  could  never  forget, 
never  cease  to  regret,  but  he  would  feel  that  in  the  Land 
of  Understanding  the  hapless  victim  of  his  crime  had 
forgiven  the  sin  that  had  robbed  her  of  her  young  life. 

And  as  he  grew  calmer  he  beganlto  be  conscious  that 
in  the  room  where  he  sat  there  was  a  restfulness  that  he 
had  not  felt  in  any  other  part  of  the  house  since  his 
return  to  Craven  Towers.  It  was  acting  on  him 
curiously  and  he  wondered  what  it  portended.  And  as 
he  pondered  it  Gillian  came  to  him  with  a  cup  of  coffee 
Jo.  either  hand. 

"Monsieur  est  servi,"  she  said  with  a  little  laugh. 
She  seemed  to  have  suddenly  overcome  shyness  as  if,  in 
her  own  domain,  the  first  surprise  of  his  visit  over,  her 
surroundings  gave  her  confidence.  Or,  perhaps,  the 
womanliness  that  had  been  called  out  to  meet  his  pass- 
ing weakness  had  set  her  on  another  plane.  All  signs  of 
giddiness  had  left  him  and,  with  her  usual  intuition,  she 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  155 

did  not  trouble  him  with  questions.  For  the  first  time 
she  found  it  easy  to  speak  to  him,  and  talked  as  she 
would  have  done  to  Peters.  She  spoke  of  his  northern 
visit  and,  following  his  lead,  of  her  work,  freely  and 
without  embarrassment.  Every  moment  the  restraint 
that  had  been  between  them  seemed  growing  less.  She 
marvelled  that  she  had  ever  found  him  unapproachable 
and  wondered,  contritely,  if  her  shyness  had  been  alone 
to  blame.  She  had  been  always  constrained  and  silent 
with  him  —  small  wonder  that  he  had  avoided  her,  she 
thought  humbly.  Yet  how  could  it  have  been  other- 
wise? The  tie  between  them,  the  wonderful  generosity 
he  had  shown,  the  aloofness  he  had  maintained,  had 
made  it  impossible  for  her  to  view  him  as  an  ordinary 
human  being.  She  owed  him  everything  and  passionate 
recognition  and  a  sense  of  her  indebtedness  had  grown 
with  equal  fervour.  She  had  almost  worshipped  him.  He 
had  taken  her  from  a  life  that  had  grown  unbearable,  he 
had  given  her  the  opportunity  to  follow  the  career  for 
which  she  longed.  She  could  never  repay  him,  she 
found  it  difficult  to  put  into  words  even  to  herself  just 
what  she  felt  towards  him.  From  the  first  she  had 
raised  him  to  the  empty  pedestal  vacated  by  that  fallen 
idol,  her  father.  And  out  of  hero-worship  had  grown 
love,  at  first  the  exalted  devotion  of  an  immature  girl, 
adoration  that  was  purely  sexless  and  selfless  —  a  mysti- 
cal love  without  passion,  spiritual.  He  had  appeared  to 
her  as  a  being  of  another  sphere  and,  mentally,  she  had 
knelt  at  his  feet  as  to  a  patron  saint.  But  with  her  own 
development  love  had  expanded.  She  realised  that  what 
she  felt  for  him  was  no  longer  childish  adoration,  but  a 
greater,  more  wonderful  emotion.  She  had  grown  to  a 
full  understanding  of  her  own  heart,  the  divinity  had 
become  a  man  for  whose  love  she  yearned.  But  she 
loved  hopelessly  as  she  loved  deeply,  she  had  no  thought 


156  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

that  her  love  could  be  returned.  His  proximity  had 
always  troubled  her,  and  to-day  as  she  sat  on  the 
window  seat  beside  him  she  was  conscious  of  a  greater 
unrest  than  she  had  ever  before  felt,  and  her  heart 
throbbed  painfully  with  the  vague  formless  longings,  in- 
explicable and  frightening,  that  stirred  within  her  until 
it  seemed  impossible  that  her  agitation  could  pass  un- 
noticed. Shyness  fell  on  her  again,  the  ready  words 
faltered,  and  gradually  she  became  silent.  Craven  took 
the  empty  coffee  cups  and  replaced  them  on  the  table 
by  the  fire.  Going  back  to  the  window  he  found  her 
kneeling  up  on  the  cushioned  seat,  her  hands  clasped 
before  her,  looking  out  at  the  white  world.  The  childish 
attitude  that  seemed  in  keeping  with  the  artist's  blouse 
and  tumbled  hair  made  her  look  singularly  young.  He 
stood  beside  her,  so  close  that  he  almost  touched  her 
shoulder,  and  his  eyes  ranged  hungrily  over  the  whole 
slim  beauty  of  her,  lingering  on  the  little  bent  brown 
head,  the  soft  curve  of  her  girlish  bosom,  until  the  yearn- 
ing for  her  grew  intolerable  and  the  restraint  he  put 
upon  himself  took  all  his  resolution.  The  temptation 
to  gather  her  into  his  arms  was  almost  more  than  he 
could  resist,  he  folded  them  tightly  across  his  chest  —  he 
could  not  trust  them.  He  could  barely  trust  himself. 
The  unwonted  intimacy,  the  subtle  torture  of  her  near- 
ness set  his  pulses  leaping  madly.  The  blood  beat  in 
his  head,  his  body  quivered  with  the  passionate  longing, 
the  fierce  desire  that  rushed  over  him.  In  the  agony  of 
the  moment  only  the  elemental  man  existed,  and  he  was 
sensible  alone  of  the  burning  physical  need  that  rose 
above  all  higher  purer  sentiment.  To  hold  her  crushed 
against  his  throbbing  heart,  to  bury  his  face  in  the 
fragrance  of  her  soft  hair,  to  kiss  her  lips  till  she  should 
beg  his  mercy  —  there  seemed  no  greater  joy  on  earth. 
He  wanted  her  as  he  had  wanted  nothing  in  his  life 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  157 

before.  And  yet,  if  he  gained  what  he  had  come  to  ask 
he  knew  that  what  he  suffered  now  would  be  as  nothing 
to  what  he  would  have  to  endure.  To  know  her  his 
wife,  bound  in  every  sense  to  him  —  and  to  turn  his  face 
from  the  happiness  that  by  all  laws  was  his!  Had  he 
the  strength?  Almost  it  seemed  that  he  had  not.  He 
was  only  human  —  and  there  was  a  limit  to  human  endur- 
ance. If  circumstances  proved  too  hard.  .  .  .  The 
sound  of  a  little  smothered  cough  checked  his  thoughts 
abruptly.  He  realised  that  in  self -commiseration  he  had 
lost  sight  of  the  purpose  of  his  visit.  It  was  only  she 
who  mattered;  her  health,  her  happiness  that  must  be 
considered.  He  cursed  himself  and  searched  vainly  for 
words  to  express  what  he  must  say.  And  the  more  he 
thought  the  more  utterly  speech  evaded  him.  Then 
chance  aided.  She  coughed  again  and  with  a  little 
impatient  gesture  rose  to  her  feet. 

"Aunt  Caro  has  decided  to  go  to  Cimiez  for  the  rest 
of  the  winter  —  because  of  my  cough.  She  settled  it  while 
you  were  away.  I  don't  want  to  go,  my  cough  is  noth- 
ing. I  wouldn't  exchange  this" — pointing  to  the  snow- 
clad  park  —  "for  all  the  warmth  and  sunshine  of  the 
Riviera.  I  want  to  store  up  all  the  memories  I  can. 
You  don't  know  how  I  have  learned  to  love  the  Towers." 
It  was  as  if  the  last  words  had  escaped  unintentionally 
for  she  flushed  and  turned  again  abruptly  to  the  darken- 
ing window.  His  heart  gave  a  sudden  leap  but  he  did 
not  move. 

"Then  why  leave  it?"  he  asked  brusquely. 

She  leaned  her  forehead  on  the  frosting  glass  and  her 
eyes  grew  misty. 

"You  know,"  she  said  softly,  and  her  voice  trembled. 
"  In  all  the  world  I  have  only  my  —  my  talent  and  my 
self-respect.  If  I  were  to  do  what  you  and  Aunt  Caro, 
in  your  wonderful  generosity,  propose  —  oh,  don't  stop 


158  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

me,  you  must  listen  —  I  should  only  have  my  talent  left. 
Can't  you  see,  can't  you  understand  that  I  must  work, 
that  I  must  prove  my  self-respect?  For  all  that  you 
have  done,  for  all  that  you  have  given  me  I  have  tried 
to  thank  you  —  often.  Always  you  have  stopped  me. 
Do  you  grudge  me  the  only  way  in  which  I  can  show 
my  gratitude,  the  only  way  in  which  I  can  prove  myself 
worthy  of  your  esteem?"  Her  voice  broke  in  a  little 
sob.  Then  she  turned  to  him  quickly,  her  hands  out- 
stretched and  quivering.  "If  I  could  only  do  something 

to  repay "  she  cried,  with  a  passionate  earnestness 

he  had  never  heard  in  her  before.  He  caught  at  the 
opening  that  offered.  "You  can,"  he  said  quietly, 
"but  it  is  so  big  a  thing  —  it  would  more  than  swamp 
the  debt  you  think  you  owe  me. " 

"  Tell  me, "  she  whispered  urgently  as  he  paused. 

He  turned  from  her  eager  questioning  face  with  acute 
embarrassment.  He  hated  himself,  he  hated  his  task, 
only  the  darkness  of  the  room  seemed  to  make  it  possible. 

"Gillian,"  he  said,  with  constrained  gravity.  "I  came 
to  you  to-day  deliberately  to  ask  you  what  I  believe  no 
man  has  any  right  to  ask  a  woman.  I  have  tried  all  the 
afternoon  to  tell  you.  Something  you  said  just  now 
makes  it  easier.  You  say  you  love  the  Towers  —  do  you 
love  it  well  enough  to  stay  here  as  its  mistress,  on  the 
only  terms  that  I  can  offer?" 

The  look  of  incredulous  horror  that  leaped  into  her 
startled  eyes  made  him  realise  suddenly  the  interpreta- 
tion that  might  be  put  upon  his  words.  He  caught  her 
hands  almost  roughly.  "Good  heavens,  child,  not 
that!"  he  cried  aghast.  "What  do  you  take  me  for? 
I  am  asking  you  to  marry  me  —  but  not  the  kind  of  mar- 
riage that  every  woman  has  the  right  to  expect.  If  I 
could  offer  you  that,  God  knows  how  willingly  I  would. 
But  there  has  been  that  in  my  life  which  comes  between 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  159 

me  and  the  happiness  that  other  men  can  look  forward 
to.  For  me  that  part  of  life  is  over.  I  have  only  friend- 
ship to  offer.  I  know  I  am  asking  more  than  it  seems 
possible  for  you  to  grant,  more,  a  thousand  times  more 
than  I  ought  to  ask  you  —  but  I  do  ask  it,  most  earnestly. 
If  you  can  bring  yourself  to  make  so  great  a  sacrifice,  if 
you  can  accept  a  marriage  that  will  be  a  marriage  only 
in  name " 

She  shuddered  from  him  with  a  bitter  cry.  "You  are 
offering  me  charity,"  she  wailed,  struggling  to  free  her 
hands.  But  he  held  them  firmer.  "I  am  asking  you 
to  take  pity  on  a  very  lonely  man,"  he  said  gently.  "I 
am  asking  you  to  care  for  a  very  lonely  house.  You 
have  brought  sunshine  into  the  Towers,  you  have 
brought  sunshine  into  the  lives  of  many  people  living  on 
the  estate.  I  am  asking  you  to  stay  where  you  are  so 
much  wanted  —  so  much  —  loved. " 

Then  he  let  her  go  and  she  walked  unsteadily  to  the 
fireplace.  She  stood  for  a  moment,  her  fingers  working 
convulsively,  staring  into  the  smouldering  embers,  and 
then  sank  into  a  chair,  for  her  limbs  were  shaking  under 
her.  He  followed  slowly  and  stooped  to  stir  the  fire  to 
a  blaze.  Covertly  she  looked  at  him  as  the  red  light 
illuminated  his  face  and  scalding  tears  gathered  in  her 
eyes.  And,  curiously,  it  was  not  wholly  of  herself  that 
she  was  thinking.  She  was  envying,  with  a  feeling  of 
hopeless  intolerable  pain,  that  other  woman  whom  he 
had  loved.  For  his  words  could  only  have  meant  one 
thing,  and  the  great  sorrow  she  had  imagined  seemed 
all  at  once  explained.  She  wondered  what  manner  of 
woman  she  had  been,  if  she  had  died  —  or  if  she  had 
proved  unworthy.  And  the  last  thought  roused  a  sudden 
fierce  resentment  —  how  could  a  woman  who  had  won 
his  love  throw  it  back  at  his  feet,  unwanted!  The 
envious  tears  welled  over  and  she  brushed  them  fur- 


160  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

lively  away.  Then  her  thoughts  turned  in  compassion 
to  him.  Through  death  or  faithlessness  love  had  brought 
no  joy  to  him  —  he  suffered  as  she  was  suffering  now.  She 
looked  at  the  silver  threads  gleaming  in  his  hair,  at  the 
deep  lines  in  his  face  and  the  pain  in  her  eyes  gave  place 
to  a  wonderful  tenderness.  She  had  prayed  for  a  chance 
to  show  her  gratitude;  if  what  he  asked  could  bring  any 
alleviation  to  his  life,  if  her  presence  could  bring  any 
sort  of  comfort  to  his  loneliness,  was  not  even  that  more 
than  she  had  ever  dared  to  hope?  That  he  should  turn 
to  her  was  understandable.  He  had  men  friends  in 
plenty,  but  women  he  openly  and  undisguisedly  avoided. 
He  had  grown  used  to  her  presence  at  the  Towers,  a  mar- 
riage such  as  he  proposed  would  call  for  no  great  altera- 
tion in  the  daily  routine  to  which  he  had  become  accus- 
tomed. If  by  doing  this  she  could  in  any  way  repay.  .  .  . 

The  replenished  fire  was  filling  the  room  with  soft 
flickering  light,  it  cast  strange  shadows  on  the  curtained 
walls  and  revealed  the  girl's  strained  white  face 
pitilessly.  Craven  had  risen  and  was  standing  looking 
down  on  her.  She  grew  aware  of  his  scrutiny  and 
flinched,  the  hot  blood  rolling  slowly,  painfully  over  her 
face  and  neck.  He  spoke  abruptly,  as  if  the  words  were 
forced  from  him: 

"But  I  want  you  to  realise  fully  what  this  marriage 
with  me  would  mean,  for  it  is  a  very  big  sacrifice  I  am 
asking  of  you.  Whatever  happened,  you  would  be 
bound  to  me.  If"  — his  voice  faltered  momentarily - 
"  if  you  were  sometime  to  meet  a  man  —  and  love  him  — 
you  would  be  my  wife,  you  would  not  be  free  to  follow 
your  heart." 

She  stared  straight  before  her,  her  hands  clasped  tight 
around  her  knees,  shivering  slightly.  "I  shall  never  — 
want  to  marry  —  in  that  way,"  she  said  in  a  strangled 
voice. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  181 

He  smiled  sadly.  "You  think  that  now  —  you  are 
very  young,"  he  argued,  "but  we  have  the  future  to 
think  of." 

She  did  not  answer  and  in  the  silence  that  ensued  he 
wondered  what  had  induced  him  to  put  forward  an 
argument  that  might  defeat  his  purpose.  In  any  other 
case  it  would  have  been  only  the  honourable  thing  to 
do,  but  in  this  it  was  a  risk  he  should  not  have  taken. 
He  moved  impatiently.  Then  suddenly  he  leaned  for- 
ward and  laid  his  hands  on  her  shoulders,  drawing  her 
gently  to  her  feet. 

"Gillian!" 

Slowly  she  raised  her  head.  The  touch  of  his  hands 
was  almost  more  than  she  could  bear,  but  she  steadied 
her  trembling  lips  and  met  his  gaze  bravely  as  he  spoke 
again. 

"  If  you  will  agree  to  this  —  this  mariage  de  con- 
venance,  I  will  do  all  that  lies  in  my  power  to  make 
your  life  happy.  You  will  be  free  in  everything.  I  ask 
nothing  but  that  you  will  look  on  me  as  a  friend  to- 
whom  you  can  always  come  in  any  difficulty  or  any 
trouble.  You  will  be  ..  /iplete  mistress  of  yourself,  your 
time,  your  inclinations.  I  will  not  interfere  with  you  in 
any  way." 

She  searched  his  face,  trying  to  read  what  lay  behind 
his  inscrutable  expression.  His  eyes  were  kind,  but 
there  was  in  them  a  curious  underlying  gleam  that  she 
could  not  understand.  And  his  voice  puzzled  her.  She 
was  bewildered,  torn  with  conflicting  doubts.  Sensi- 
tively she  shrank  from  his  inexplicable  suggestion,  she 
could  see  no  reason  for  his  amazing  proposal  save  an 
extraordinary  generosity  that  filled  her  with  gratitude 
and  yet  against  which  she  revolted. 

"You  are  doing  this  in  pity!"  she  cried  miserably. 

" Before  God  I  swear  that  I  am  not,"  he  said,  with 


162  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

unexpected  fierceness  that  startled  her,  and  the  sudden 
painful  gripping  of  the  strong  hands  on  her  shoulders 
made  her  for  the  first  time  aware  of  his  strength.  She 
thought  of  it  wonderingly.  If  it  had  been  otherwise,  if 
he  had  loved  her,  how  gladly  she  would  have  sur- 
rendered to  it.  It  would  have  stood  between  her  and 
the  unknown  world  that  loomed  sometimes  in  spite  of 
her  confidence  with  a  sinister  horror  on  which  she  dared 
not  dwell.  In  the  safety  of  his  arms  she  would  never 
have  known  fear,  his  strength  would  have  shielded  her 
through  life.  And,  in  a  lesser  degree,  his  strength  might 
still  be  hers  to  turn  to,  if  she  would.  A  new  conception 
of  the  future  she  had  planned  rushed  over  her,  the  con- 
fidence she  had  felt  fell  suddenly  away,  leaving  fear  and 
dread  and  a  terror  of  loneliness.  His  touch  had 
destroyed  her  faith  in  herself.  It  had  done  more.  In 
some  subtle  way  it  seemed  to  her  he  had  by  his  touch 
claimed  her.  And  with  his  hands  still  pressing  her 
shoulders  she  felt  a  strange  inability  to  oppose  him.  He 
had  sworn  that  it  was  not  pity  that  dictated  his  offer. 
He  had  said  that  love  did  not  exist  for  him.  What  then 
could  be  his  motive?  She  could  £~  '  ~one. 

"You  wouldn't  lie  to  me?"  she  whispered,  tormented 
with  doubt,  "you  wish  this  —  this  marriage  —  truly?" 

He  looked  at  her  steadily. 

"I  wish  it,  truly,"  he  said  firmly. 

"You  would  let  me  go  on  with  my  work?"  she  faltered, 
fighting  for  time. 

"I  have  said  that  I  would  not  interfere  with  you  in 
any  way,  that  you  would  be  free  in  everything,"  he 
answered,  and  as  if  in  earnest  of  the  freedom  promised 
his  hands  slipped  from  her. 

The  fire  had  died  down  again,  and  the  room  was  almost 
dark,  he  could  hardly  see  her  where  she  stood.  He 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  16$ 

waited,  hoping  she  would  speak,  then  abruptly:  "Can 
you  give  me  an  answer,  Gillian?" 

He  heard  the  quick  intake  of  her  breath,  felt  her 
trembling  beside  him. 

"Oh,  if  you  would  give  me  time,"  she  murmured  en- 
treatingly.  "I  want  to  think.  It  means  so  much. " 

"Take  all  the  time  you  wish,"  he  said,  and  went 
quietly  away.  And  his  going  brought  a  sudden  desola- 
tion. She  longed  to  call  him  back,  to  promise  what  he 
asked,  to  yield  without  further  struggle.  But  uncer- 
tainty held  her.  Motionless  she  stood  staring  through 
the  darkness  at  the  dim  outline  of  the  door  that  had 
closed  behind  him,  her  breast  heaving  tumultuously, 
until  tears  blinded  her  and  with  a  gasping  sob  she 
slipped  to  the  floor.  She  had  never  dared  to  hope  that 
he  could  love  her,  but  the  truth  from  his  own  lips  was 
bitter.  And  for  a  time  the  realisation  of  that  bitterness 
deadened  all  other  feeling.  Overwrought  with  the 
emotion  of  the  last  few  hours,  her  nerves  strained  to 
breaking  point,  she  was  unable  to  check  the  tide  of  grief 
that  shook  her  to  the  very  depths  of  her  being.  With 
her  face  hidden  in  the  soft  rug,  her  outflung  hands 
clenching  convulsively,  she  wept  in  an  abandonment  of 
sorrow. 

If  he  had  never  spoken,  if  he  had  never  made  this 
strange  proposal  but  had  maintained  until  the  end  the 
detached  reserve  that  had  seemed  to  set  so  wide  a  gulf 
between  them,  it  would  have  been  easier  to  bear.  He 
would  have  passed  out  of  her  life,  inscrutable  as  he  had 
always  been.  But  with  his  change  of  attitude,  in  the 
intimacy  of  the  few  hours  they  had  spent  alone,  she  had 
seen  him  with  new  eyes.  The  mysterious  unapproach- 
able guardian  had  gone  for  ever,  and  in  his  place  was  a 
very  human  man  revealing  characteristics  she  had  never 
imagined  to  exist,  showing  an  interest  and  a  gentleness 


164  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

she  had  never  suspected.  He  had  exhibited  a  similarity 
of  tastes  and  ideas  that  agreed  extraordinarily  with  her 
own,  he  had  talked  as  to  a  comrade.  The  companion- 
ship had  been  very  sweet  —  very  sorrowful.  She  could 
never  think  of  him  again  as  he  had  been,  and  the  new 
conception  of  him  gave  a  poignant  stab  to  her  grief.  In 
the  brief  happiness  of  the  afternoon  she  had  had  a  fleet- 
ing vision  of  what  might  have  been  "if  he  had  loved 
me,"  she  moaned,  and  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  had 
never  known  until  now  the  real  depth  of  her  own  love. 
What  she  had  felt  before  was  not  comparable  with  the 
overwhelming  passion  that  the  touch  of  his  hands  had 
quickened.  It  swept  her  like  a  ragbag  torrent,  carrying 
her  beyond  the  limit  of  her  understanding,  bringing  with 
it  strange  yearnings  that,  half -understood,  she  shuddered 
from,  ashamed. 

Torn  with  emotion  she  wept  until  she  had  no  tears 
left,  until  the  hard  racking  sobs  died  away  and  her  tired 
sorrow-shaken  body  lay  still.  For  the  moment,  ex- 
hausted, her  agony  of  mind  was  dulled  and  time  was 
non-existent.  She  did  not  move  or  lift  her  head  from 
the  tear-wet  rug.  A  great  weariness  seemed  to  deaden 
all  faculty.  The  minutes  passed  unnoticed.  Then  some 
latent  consciousness  stirred  in  her  brain  and  she  looked 
up  startled. 

It  was  quite  dark  and  she  realised,  shivering,  that  the 
room  had  grown  very  cold.  The  calm  afternoon  had 
given  place  to  a  stormy  night  and  heavy  gusts  of  wind 
were  sweeping  round  the  angle  of  the  house,  shrieking 
and  whistling  eerily;  from  the  window  came  the  soft 
swish  swish  of  dry  hard  snow  beating  against  the  panes. 
She  started  to  her  feet.  She  had  no  idea  of  the  hour 
but  she  knew  it  must  be  late.  Perhaps  the  dinner  gong 
had  already  sounded  and,  missed,  somebody  might  come 
in  search  of  her.  She  shrank  from  being  found  thus. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  165 

Feeling  her  way  to  a  lamp  she  turned  the  switch  and 
the  soft  light  flooding  the  room  made  her  wince.  A 
glance  at  her  watch  showed  that  she  had  still  a  few 
moments  in  which  to  gain  her  room  unobserved. 

She  felt  oddly  lightheaded  and  her  feet  dragged 
wearily.  The  tortuous  passage  had  never  seemed  so 
interminable,  the  succession  of  closed  doors  appeared  un- 
ending. Reaching  her  own  room  she  collapsed  on  to  a 
sofa  that  was  drawn  up  before  the  fire,  her  head  aching, 
her  limbs  shivering  uncontrollably,  worn  out  with 
emotion.  Exhausted  in  mind  and  body  she  seemed  un- 
able even  to  frame  a  thought  logically  or  coherently  — 
only  an  interrupted  medley  of  unconnected  ideas  chased 
through  her  tired  brain  until  her  temples  throbbed 
agonisingly.  She  knew  that  sometime  she  would  have 
to  rouse  herself,  that  sometime  a  decision  would  have 
to  be  made,  but  not  now.  Now  she  could  only  lie  still 
and  make  no  effort.  She  was  angry  with  herself,  con- 
temptuous of  her  weakness.  She  had  disdained  nerves, 
she  was  humiliated  now  by  her  present  lack  of  control. 
But  even  self-scorn  was  a  passing  thought  from  which 
she  turned  wearily. 

One  fact  only  remained,  clear  and  distinct  from  the 
confusion  in  her  mind  —  he  did  not  love  her.  He  did  not 
love  her.  It  hurt  so.  She  hid  her  face  in  the  pillows, 
writhing  with  the  shame  the  knowledge  of  her  own  love 
brought  her.  The  deep  booming  of  the  dinner  gong 
awoke  her  to  the  necessity  of  some  kind  of  action.  She 
rang  the  bell  that  hong  within  reach  of  her  hand  and, 
by  the  maid  who  answered  her  summons,  sent  her  ex- 
cuses to  Miss  Craven,  pleading  a  headache  for  remaining 
upstairs. 

A  few  minutes4  later  Mary,  grim-visaged  and  big- 
hearted,  appeared  with  a  tray,  headache  remedies  and 
multifarious  messages  from  the  dining  room.  Sh« 


166  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

bathed  the  girl's  aching  head,  brushing  the  tumbled 
brown  hair  and  piling  it  afresh  into  a  soft  loose  knot. 
Grumbling  gently  at  the  long  hours  of  work  to  which  she 
attributed  the  unusual  indisposition,  she  took  full  advan- 
tage of  the  rare  opportunity  of  rendering  personal  atten- 
tion and  fussed  to  her  heart's  content,  stripping  off  the 
stained  overall  and  substituting  a  loose  velvet  wrapper; 
and  then  stood  over  her,  a  kindly  martinet,  until  the 
light  dinner  she  had  brought  was  eaten.  Afterwards  she 
packed  pillows,  made  up  the  fire,  and  administered  a 
particularly  nauseous  specific  emanating  from  a  homeo- 
pathic medicine  chest  that  was  her  greatest  pride,  and 
then  took  herself  away,  still  mildly  admonishing. 

Gillian  leaned  back  against  the  cushions  with  a  feeling 
of  greater  ease  and  restfulness.  Food  had  given  her 
strength  and  under  Mary's  ministrations  her  mental 
poise  had  steadied.  She  would  not  let  herself  dwell  on 
the  question  that  must  before  long  be  settled,  Miss 
Craven  would  be  coming  soon,  and  until  she  had  been 
and  gone  no  definite  settlement  could  be  attempted. 

She  lay  looking  at  the  fire,  endeavouring  to  keep  her 
mind  a  blank.  It  was  odd  to  be  alone,  she  missed  the 
familiar  black  form  lying  on  the  hearth-rug,  but  to- 
night she  could  not  bear  even  Mouston's  presence,  and 
Mary  had  taken  a  request  to  Yoshio,  to  whose  room  the 
<iog  had  been  banished  from  the  studio,  that  he  would 
keep  him  until  the  morning. 

A  tap  at  the  door  and  Miss  Craven  appeared,  anxious 
and  questioning. 

"Only  a  headache?  —  my  dear,  I  don't  believe  it!" 
she  protested,  plumping  down  on  the  side  of  the  sofa  and 
clutching  at  her  hair,  that  sure  sign  of  perturbation. 
"You've  never  had  a  headache  like  this  before.  You've 
been  working  too  hard.  You  were  painting  all  the  morn-c 
ing  and  they  tell  me  you  worked  throughout  the  after- 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  16? 

noon  and  had  no  tea.  Gillian,  dear,  when  will  you  learn 
iense?  I  don't  at  all  approve  of  you  having  tea  sent  to 
the  studio  only  when  you  ring  for  it.  Young  people 
require  regular  meals  and  as  often  as  not  neglect  'em; 
young  artists  are  the  worst  offenders  —  you  needn't  con- 
tradict me,  I  know  all  about  it.  I  did  it  myself.  She 
patted  the  clasped  hands  lying  near  her  and  scrutinised 
the  girl  more  closely.  "You're  as  pale  as  a  ghost  and 
your  eyes  are  too  bright.  Did  Mary  take  your  tempera- 
ture? No?  —  the  woman  must  have  lost  her  senses.  I'll 
telephone  to  Doctor  Harris  to  come  and  see  you  in  the 
morning.  If  you  looked  a  fraction  more  feverish  I'd 
send  for  you  to-night,  storm  or  no  storm.  Peter  braved 
it,  open  car  as  usual.  He  sent  his  love.  Barry  turned 
up  from  Scotland  this  afternoon.  He  looks  very  tired  — 
says  he  had  a  bothering  time  and  a  wretched  journey  — 
Gillian!"  she  cried  sharply  as  the  girl  slid  from  the 
sofa  on  to  her  knees  beside  her  and  raised  a  quivering 
piteous  face. 

"Aunt  Caro,  I'm  not  ill,"  the  words  came  in  tumbling 
haste,  "there's  nothing  bodily  the  matter  with  me  — 
I'm  only  dreadfully  unhappy.  I  know  Mr.  Craven  is 
back  —  he  came  to  me  in  the  studio  this  afternoon.  He 
asked  me  to  marry  him/'  the  troubled  voice  sank  to  a 
whisper,  "  and  I  —  I  don't  know  what  to  do." 

"My  dear."  The  tenderness  of  Miss  Craven's  tone 
sent  a  strangling  wave  of  emotion  into  Gillian's  throat. 
"Aunt  Caro,  did  you  know?  Do  you  wish  it  too?"  she 
murmured  wistfully. 

Unwilling  to  admit  a  previous  knowledge  which  would 
be  difficult  to  explain,  Miss  Craven  temporised.  "I  very 
greatly  hoped  for  it,"  she  said  guardedly;  "you  and 
Barry  are  all  I  have  to  care  for,  and  you  are  both  so  — 
alone.  I  know  you  think  of  a  very  different  life,  I  know 
you  have  dreams  of  making  a  career  for  yourself.  But 


168  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

a  career  is  not  all  that  a  woman  wants  in  her  life;  it  can 
perhaps  mean  independence  and  fame,  it  can  also  mean 
great  loneliness  and  the  loss  of  the  full  and  perfect  hap- 
piness that  should  be  every  woman's.  You  mustn't 
judge  all  cases  by  me.  I  have  been  happy  in  my  own 
way  but  I  want  a  greater,  richer  happiness  for  you,  dear. 
I  want  for  you  the  best  that  the  world  can  give,  and  that 
best  I  believe  to  be  the  shelter  and  the  safety  of  a  man's 
love." 

The  brown  head  dropped  on  her  knee.  "You  are 
thinking  of  me  —  I  am  thinking  of  him, "  came  a  stifled 
whisper. 

Miss  Craven  stroked  the  soft  hair  tenderly.  "Then 
why  not  give  him  what  he  asks,  my  dear,"  she  said 
gently.  "He  has  known  sorrow  and  suffering.  If 
through  you,  he  can  forget  the  past  in  a  new  happiness, 
will  you  not  grant  it  him?  Oh,  Gillian,  I  have  so  hoped 
that  you  might  care  for  each  other;  that,  together,  you 
might  make  the  Towers  the  perfect  home  it  should  be,  a 
home  of  mutual  trust  and  love.  You  and  Barry  and, 
please  God,  after  you  —  your  children. "  She  choked  with 
unexpected  emotion  and  brushed  the  mist  from  her  eyes 
impatiently. 

And  at  her  knee  Gillian  knelt  motionless,  her  lip  held 
fast  between  her  teeth  to  stop  the  bitter  cry  that  nearly 
escaped  her,  her  heart  almost  bursting.  The  picture 
Miss  Craven's  words  called  up  was  an  ideal  of  happiness 
that  might  have  been.  The  suffering  that  reality 
promised  seemed  more  than  she  could  contemplate. 
What  happiness  could  come  from  such  a  travesty?  The 
strange  yearnings  she  had  experienced  seemed  suddenly 
crystallised  into  form,  and  the  knowledge  was  a  greater 
pain  than  she  had  known.  What  she  would  have  gone' 
down  to  the  gates  of  death  to  give  him  he  did  not  require  — 
the  unutterable  joy  that  Miss  Craven  suggested  would 
never  be  hers. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  169 

She  searched  for  words,  for  an  explanation  of  her 
silence  that  must  seem  strange  to  the  elder  woman. 
Miss  Craven  obviously  knew  nothing  of  the  unusual  con- 
ditions attached  to  his  proposal,  her  words  proved  it, 
and  Gillian  could  not  tell  her.  She  could  not  betray  his 
confidence  even  if  she  had  so  wished.  If  she  could  but 
speak  frankly  and  show  all  her  difficulty  to  the  friend 
who  had  never  yet  failed  in  love  and  sympathy — — 
She  sought  refuge  in  prevarication.  "How  can  I  many 
him?"  she  cried  miserably.  "You  don't  know  any- 
thing about  me.  I'm  not  a  fit  person  to  be  his  wife  —  my 
antecedents " 

"Bother  your  antecedents!"  interrupted  Miss 
Craven,  with  a  somewhat  shaky  laugh.  "My  dearest 
girl,  Barry  isn't  going  to  marry  them,  he's  going  to 
marry  you.  They  can  have  been  anything  you  like  or 
imagine  but  it  does  not  alter  the  fact  that  their  daughter 
is  the  one  woman  on  earth  I  want  for  Barry's  wife." 
She  stooped  and  gathered  the  girl  into  her  arms. 

"Gillian,  can  you  give  us,  Barry  and  me,  this  great 
happiness?" 

Gently  Gillian  disengaged  herself  and  rose  slowly  to 
her  feet.  She  made  «.  little  helpless  gesture,  swaying  as 
she  stood.  "What  can  I  say?"  she  said  brokenly.  "Do 
you  think  it  means  nothing  to  me!  Don't  you  know 
that  what  I  already  owe  you  and  Mr.  Craven  is 
almost  more  than  I  can  bear,  that  I  would  give  my  life 
for  either  of  you?  But  this  —  oh,  you  don't  understand  — 

I  can't  tell  you  — I  can't  explain She  dropped 

back  on  the  sofa  and  her  voice  came  muffled  and  entreat- 
ingly  from  among  the  silken  cushions,  "If  you  knew 
how  I  long  to  repay  you  for  your  wonderful  goodness, 
if  you  knew  what  your  love  has  meant  to  me!  Oh,  dearest, 
I'd  give  the  world  to  please  you!  But  I  don't  know 
what  to  do,  I  don't  know  what  is  honest  —  and  you 


170  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

can't  help  me,  nobody  can  help  me.   I've  got  to  settle  it 
myself.    I've  got  to  think " 

Miss  Craven  guessed  the  crying  need  for  solitude  con- 
veyed in  the  last  faltering  words  and  rose  in  obedience 
to  the  unspoken  request.  She  stood  for  a  moment,  look- 
ing tenderly  down  on  the  slim  prostrate  figure,  and  a 
fear  that  grew  momentarily  stronger  came  to  her  that  in 
her  endeavour  to  bring  happiness  to  these  two  lives  she 
had  blundered  fatally.  She  had  been  a  fool,  rushing  in. 
And  with  almost  a  feeling  of  dismay  she  realised  it  was 
beyond  her  ability  now  to  stay  what  she  had  put  in 
motion.  She  was  as  one  who,  having  wantonly  released 
some  complex  mechanism,  stands  aghast  and  powerless 
at  the  consequence  of  his  rashness.  And  yet,  despite  the 
seeming  setback  to  her  hopes,  the  conviction  that  had 
urged  her  to  this  step  was  still  strong  in  her;  she  still 
had  faith  in  its  ultimate  achievement.  She  touched  the 
girl's  shoulder  in  a  quick  caress.  "You  are  worn  out, 
child.  Go  to  bed  and  rest  now,  and  think  to-morrow," 
she  said  soothingly. 

For  long  after  she  left  the  room  Gillian  lay  without 
moving.  Then  with  a  long  shuddering  sigh  she  sat  up. 
She  tried  to  concentrate  on  the  decision  she  must  make 
but  her  thoughts,  ungovernable,  dwelt  persistently  on 
the  unknown  woman  whom  she  had  convinced  herself  he 
must  have  loved,  and  the  passionate  envy  she  had  felt 
before  swept  her  again  until  the  pain  of  it  sent  a  whis- 
pered prayer  to  her  lips  for  strength  to  put  it  from  her. 
Huddled  on  the  side  of  the  sofa,  her  head  supported  on 
her  hands,  she  stared  fixedly  into  the  fire  as  if  seeking 
in  the  leaping  flames  the  answer  to  the  problem  that 
confronted  her.  Then  in  her  agony  of  mind  inaction 
became  impossible  and  she  rose  and  paced  the  room  with 
hurried  nervous  tread. 

To  do  what  was  right  —  to  do  what  was  honourable; 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  171 

to  conquer  the  clamorous  self  that  cried  out  for  accept- 
ance of  this  semblance  of  happiness  that  was  offered. 
To  bear  his  name,  to  have  the  right  to  be  near  him,  to 
care  for  him  and  for  his  interests  as  far  as  she  might. 
To  be  his  wife  —  even  if  only  in  name.  Dear  God,  did  he 
know  how  he  had  tempted  her?  But  she  had  no  right. 
The  crushing  burden  of  debt  she  owed  rose  like  an  un- 
surpassable mountain  between  her  and  what  she 
longed  for.  Only  by  repayment  could  she  keep  her  self- 
respect.  The  dreams  of  independence,  the  place  she  had 
thought  to  make  for  herself  in  the  world,  the  re-establish- 
ing of  her  father's  name  —  could  she  forego  what 
she  had  planned?  Was  it  not  a  nobler  aim  than  the 
gratification  of  self  that  urged  the  easier  way?  Yet 
would  it  be  the  easier  way?  Was  she  not  really  hi  her 
heart  shrinking  from  the  difficulty  and  sadness  that  this 
loveless  marriage  would  bring?  Was  it  not  cowardice 
that  prompted  a  supposed  nobility  of  thought  that  now 
appeared  ignoble?  She  wrung  her  hands  in  desperation. 
Had  she  no  courage  or  steadfastness  at  all?  Was  the 
weakness  of  purpose  that  had  ruined  her  father's  life  to 
be  her  curse  as  it  had  been  his? 

She  felt  suddenly  very  young,  very  inexperienced. 
Her  early  training  that  had  denied  the  exercise  of  indi- 
vidual responsibility  and  had  inculcated  a  passivity  of 
mind  that  precluded  self-determination  had  bitten 
deeper  than  she  knew.  Her  life  since  leaving  the  con- 
vent had  been  smooth  and  uneventful,  there  had  been 
no  occasion  to  practise  the  new  liberty  of  thought  and 
action  that  was  hers.  And  now  before  a  decision  that 
would  be  so  irrevocable,  that  would  involve  her  whole 
life  —  and  not  hers  alone  —  she  felt  to  the  full  the  dis- 
ability of  her  upbringing.  Alone  she  must  make  her 
choice  and  she  shrank  from  the  burden  of  responsibility 
that  fell  upon  her.  She  had  nobody  to  turn  to  for  coun- 


172  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

ael  or  advice.  In  her  loneliness  she  longed  for  the  solace 
of  a  mother's  tenderness,  the  shelter  of  a  mother's  arms, 
and  bitterness  came  to  her  as  she  thought  of  the  parents 
who  had  each  in  their  turn  abandoned  her  so  callously. 
She  had  been  robbed  of  her  birthright  of  love  and  care. 
She  was  alone  in  the  world,  alone  to  fight  her  own  battles, 
alone  in  the  moment  of  her  direst  need. 

Then  all  at  once  she  seemed  to  see  in  the  trend  of  her 
thoughts  only  a  supreme  selfishness  that  had  lost  sight 
of  all  but  personal  consideration.  Was  her  love  of  so 
little  worth  that  in  thought  for  herself  she  had  forgotten 
him?  He  had  asked  her  to  pity  his  loneliness  —  and  she 
had  had  only  pity  for  herself.  Her  lips  quivered  as  she 
whispered  his  name  in  an  agony  of  self-condemnation. 

Coming  back  slowly  to  the  fireside  she  slipped  to  the 
floor  and  leaned  her  head  against  the  sofa  listening  to 
the  storm  that  beat  with  increasing  violence  against  the 
house,  and  the  roar  of  the  tempest  without  seemed  in 
strange  agreement  with  the  tumult  that  was  raging  in 
her  heart.  The  words  he  had  used  came  back  to  her. 
Did  it  reaHy  Jie  in  her  power  to  lessen  the  loneliness  of 
his  life?  To  give  him  what  he  asked  —  was  not  that, 
after  all,  the  true  way  to  pay  her  debt!  With  a  little 
sob  she  bowed  her  head  on  her  hands.  .  .  .  An  hour 
later  she  rose  stiffly,  cramped  with  long  sitting,  and 
moving  nearer  to  the  fire  chafed  her  cold  hands 
mechanically.  Her  face  was  very  sad  and  her  wide  eyes 
heavy  with  unshed  tears.  She  drew  a  long  sobbing 
breath.  "Because  I  love  him,"  she  murmured.  "If 
I  didn't  love  him  I  couldn't  do  it."  A  thought  that 
brought  new  hope  came  to  her.  She  loved  him  so 
deeply,  might  not  her  love,  she  wondered  wistfully, 
perhaps  some  day  be  strong  enough  to  heal  the  wound 
he  had  sustained  —  strong  enough  even  to  compel  his 
love?  Then  doubt  seized  hold  on  her  again.  Would 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  175 

she,  in  the  limited  scope  that  she  would  have,  find  oppor- 
tunity —  would  he  ever  allow  her  to  get  near  enough  to 
him?  .  .  .  She  flung  her  hands  out  in  passionate 
appeal. 

"Oh,  God!  if  this  thing  that  I  am  doing  is  wrong,  if 
it  brings  sorrow  and  unhappiness,  let  me  be  the  only 
one  to  pay!" 

A  sudden  longing  to  make  retraction  impossible  came 
over  her.  She  looked  anxiously  at  her  watch.  Was  it 
too  late  to  go  to  him  to-night?  Only  when  she  had  told 
him  would  she  be  sure  of  herself.  Her  word  once  given 
there  could  be  no  withdrawal. 

It  was  nearly  midnight  but  she  knew  he  rarely  left  his 
study  until  later.  Peters  would  be  gone,  he  was  methodi- 
cal in  his  habits  and  retired  punctually  at  eleven  o'clock 
with  a  regularity  that  was  unvarying.  She  was  sure  of 
finding  him  alone.  She  dared  not  wait  until  the  morn- 
ing, she  must  go  now  while  she  had  the  courage.  Delay 
might  bring  new  doubts,  new  uncertainty.  Impulsively 
she  started  towards  the  door,  then  paused  on  a  sudden 
thought  that  sent  the  warm  blood  in  a  painful  wave  to 
her  face.  Would  he  misunderstand,  think  her  un- 
womanly, attribute  her  hasty  decision  to  a  sordid  desire 
for  material  gain,  for  the  ease  that  would  be  hers,  for 
the  position  that  his  name  would  give?  It  was  the 
natural  thought  for  him  who  offered  so  much  to  one  who 
would  give  nothing  in  return.  And  not  for  him  alone  — 
in  the  eyes  of  the  world  she  would  be  only  a  little  adven- 
turess who  had  skilfully  seized  the  opportunity  that  cir- 
cumstance had  given  to  advantage  herself.  But  the 
world  did  not  matter,  she  thought  with  scornful  curling 
lip,  it  was  only  in  his  eyes  that  she  desired  to  stand  well. 
Then  with  quick  shame  she  knew  that  the  sentiments 
she  had  ascribed  to  him  were  unworthy,  the  outcome 
only  of  her  own  strained  imagination,  and  she  put  them 


174  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

from  her.  She  went  quickly  to  the  gallery,  dimly  Kt 
from  a  single  lamp  left  alight  in  the  hall  below  —  left  for 
Craven  as  she  knew.  Silence  brooded  over  the  great 
house.  The  storm  that  earlier  had  beat  tempestuously 
against  the  dome  as  if  striving  to  shatter  the  massive 
glass  plates  that  opposed  its  fury  had  blown  itself  out 
and  glancing  upward  Gillian  saw  the  huge  cupola 
shrouded  with  snow  that  gleamed  palely  in  the  soft  light. 
The  stillness  oppressed  her  and  odd  thoughts  chased 
through  her  mind.  She  looked  to  right  and  left 
nervously  and  in  a  sudden  inexplicable  panic  sped  down 
the  wide  staircase  and  across  the  shadowy  hall  until  she 
reached  the  study  door.  There  she  halted  with  wildly 
beating  heart,  panting  and  breathless.  It  was  a  room 
which  she  had  never  before  entered,  and  an  almost 
paralysing  shyness  made  her  shake  from  head  to  foot. 
Nerving  herself  with  a  strong  effort  she  tapped  with 
trembling  fingers  and,  at  the  sound  of  an  answering 
voice,  went  in. 

Strength  seemed  all  at  once  to  leave  her.  Physically 
and  mentally  exhausted,  a  feeling  of  unreality  super- 
vened. The  strange  room  swam  before  her  eyes.  As 
in  a  dream  she  saw  him  start  to  his  feet  and  come  swiftly 
to  her  across  a  seemingly  unending  length  of  carpet  that 
billowed  and  wavered  curiously,  his  big  frame  oddly 
magnified  until  he  appeared  a  very  giant  towering  above 
her;  as  in  a  dream  she  felt  him  take  her  ice-cold  hands 
in  his.  But  the  warm  strong  grasp,  the  grave  eyes  bent 
compellingly  on  her,  dragged  her  back  from  the  shud- 
dering abyss  into  which  she  was  sinking.  Far  away,  as 
though  coming  from  a  great  distance,  she  heard  him 
speaking.  And  his  voice,  gentler  than  she  had  ever 
known  it,  gave  her  courage  to  whisper,  so  low  that  he 
had  to  bend  his  tall  head  to  catch  the  fluttering  words, 
the  promise  she  had  come  to  give. 


CHAPTER    VII 

ON  an  afternoon  in  early  September  eighteen  months 
after  her  marriage  Gillian  was  driving  across  the 
park  toward  the  little  village  of  Craven  that,  old  world 
and  quite  unspoiled,  clustered  round  a  tiny  Norman 
church  two  miles  distant  from  the  Towers.  She  leaned 
back  in  the  victoria,  her  hands  clasped  in  her  lap,  pre- 
occupied and  thoughtful.  A  scented  heap  of  deep  crim- 
son roses  and  carnations  lay  at  her  feet;  beside  her,  in 
contrast  to  her  listless  attitude,  Houston  sat  up  tense 
and  watchful,  his  sharp  muzzle  thrust  forward,  his  black 
nose  twitching  eagerly  at  the  distracting  agitating  smells 
borne  on  the  warm  air  tempting  him  from  monotonous 
inactivity  to  a  soul  satisfying  scamper  over  the  short 
cropped  grass  but,  conscious  of  the  dignity  of  his  posi- 
tion, ignoring  them  with  a  gravity  of  demeanour  that 
was  almost  comical.  Once  or  twice  when  his  wrinkling 
nostrils  caught  some  particularly  attractive  odour  his  pads 
kneaded  the  cushions  vigorously  and  a  snarly  gurgle  rose 
in  his  throat.  But  no  other  sign  of  restlessness  escaped 
him  —  it  was  patience  bred  of  experience.  For  miles 
around  he  was  a  well-known  figure,  sitting  grave  and 
motionless  on  his  accustomed  side  of  the  victoria  as  it 
rolled  through  the  country  lanes.  To  the  villagers  of 
Craven,  all  directly  or  indirectly  dependent  on  the 
estate,  he  was  welcome  in  that  he  was  inseparable  from 
the  gentle  tender-hearted  girl  whom  they  worshipped, 
but  then*  welcome  was  a  qualified  one  that  never 
descended  to  the  familiar;  his  strange  appearance  and 

175  ~~ 


176  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

disdainful  aloofness  made  him  an  object  of  curiosity  to 
be  viewed  with  most  safety  from  a  respectful  distance; 
time  had  not  accustomed  them  to  him  and  tales  of  his 
uncanny  understanding  filtering  through,  richly  em- 
broidered, to  the  village  from  the  house,  did  not  tend  to 
lessen  the  awe  with  which  he  was  regarded.  They  mar- 
velled, without  comprehension,  at  the  partiality  of  his 
mistress;  he  was  the  "black  French  devil"  to  more 
households  than  that  of  Major,  the  gamekeeper,  an 
"unorranary  brute"  to  those  of  less  gifted  imagination. 

To  Mouston  Gillian's  periodical  visits  to  tfye  village 
were  a  tedium  endured  for  the  sake  of  the  coveted  seat 
beside  her. 

The  passing  of  a  herd  of  deer,  feeding  intently  and  — 
save  for  one  or  two  more  timid  hinds  who  started 
nervously  —  too  used  to  the  carriage  to  heed  its  approach, 
roused  the  poodle,  as  always,  to  a  high  pitch  of  excite- 
ment; they  were  old  enemies  and  his  annoyance  gave 
vent  to  a  sharp  yelp  as  he  sidled  close  to  Gillian  and 
endeavoured  to  attract  her  attention  with  an  insistent 
paw.  But  for  once  she  was  heedless  of  the  hints  of  her 
dumb  companion,  and,  whining,  he  slunk  back  into  his 
own  corner,  curling  up  on  the  seat  with  his  forepaws 
brushing  the  mass  of  scented  blossom.  And  ignorant  of 
the  pleading  brown  eyes  fixed  pathetically  on  her, 
Gillian  followed  the  train  of  her  own  troubled  thoughts. 

For  eighteen  months  she  had  been  Barry  Craven's 
wife,  for  eighteen  months  she  had  endeavoured  to  fulfill 
her  share  of  the  contract  they  had  made  —  and  to  herself 
she  admitted  failure. 

The  strain  was  becoming  unendurable. 

In  the  eyes  of  the  world  an  ideal  couple,  in  reality — 
she  wondered  if  hi  the  whole  universe  there  were  two 
more  lonely  souls  than  they.  She  knew  now  that  the 
task  she  had  set  herself  that  stormy  December  night 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  1T7 

was  beyond  her  power,  that  it  had  been  the  unattainable 
dream  of  an  immature  love-sick  girl.  She  had  fought  to 
retain  her  high  ideals,  to  believe  that  love  —  as  great,  as 
unselfish  as  hers  —  must  beget  love,  but  she  had  come  to 
realise  the  utter  futility  of  her  dream  and  to  wonder  at 
the  childish  ignorance  that  had  inspired  it.  The  sus- 
taining hope  that  she  might  indeed  be  a  comfort  to  his 
loneliness  had  died  hard,  but  surely.  For  he  gave  her 
no  opportunity.  Despite  unfailing  kindness  and  over- 
whelming generosity  he  maintained  always  a  baffling 
reserve  she  found  impossible  to  penetrate.  Of  his  inner 
self  she  knew  no  more  than  she  had  ever  done,  she  could 
get  no  nearer  to  him.  But  in  all  matters  that  dealt  with 
their  common  life  he  was  scrupulously  frank  and  out- 
spoken; he  had  insisted  on  her  acquiring  a  knowledge 
of  his  interests  and  a  working  idea  of  his  affairs,  from 
which  she  had  shrunk  sensitively,  but  he  had  persisted, 
arguing  that  in  the  event  of  his  death  —  Peters  not  being 
immortal  —  it  was  necessary  that  she  should  be  able  to 
administer  possessions  that  would  be  hers  —  and  the 
thought  of  those  possessions  crushed  her.  It  was  only 
after  a  long  struggle,  in  distress  that  horrified  him,  that 
she  persuaded  him  to  forego  the  big  settlement  he  pro- 
posed making.  If  she  had  not  loved  him  his  liberality 
would  have  hurt  her  less,  but  because  of  her  love  his 
money  was  a  scourge.  She  hated  the  wealth  to  which 
she  felt  she  had  no  right,  to  herself  she  seemed  an  im- 
postor, a  cheat.  She  felt  degraded.  She  would  rather 
he  had  bought  her,  as  women  have  from  time  imme- 
morial been  bought,  that  she  might  have  paid  the  price, 
as  they  pay,  and  so  retained  the  self-respect  that  now 
seemed  for  ever  lost.  It  would  have  been  a  means  of 
re-establishing  herself  in  her  own  eyes,  of  easing  the 
burden  of  his  bounty  that  grew  daily  heavier  and  from 
which  she  could  never  escape.  It  was  evident  in  all 


178  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

about  her;  in  the  greater  state  and  ceremony  observed 
at  the  Towers  since  their  marriage,  which,  while  it  pleased 
the  household,  who  rejoiced  in  the  restoration  of  the  old 
regime,  oppressed  her  unspeakably;  in  the  charities 
she  dispensed  —  his  charities  that  brought  her  no  sense 
of  sacrifice,  no  joy  of  self-denial;  in  the  social  duties  that 
poured  in  upon  her. 

His  wealth  served  only  to  strengthen  the  barrier 
between  them,  but  for  that  she  might  have  been  to  him 
what  she  longed  to  be.  If  the  talent  that  now  seemed 
so  useless  could  have  been  used  for  him  she  would  have 
found  a  measure  of  happiness  even  if  love  had  never 
come  to  crown  her  service.  In  poverty  she  would  have 
worked  for  him,  slaved  for  him,  with  the  strength  and 
tirelessness  that  only  love  can  give.  But  here  the  glad- 
ness of  giving,  of  serving,  was  denied,  here  there  was 
nothing  she  might  do  and  the  futility  of  her  life  choked 
her.  She  had  conscientiously  endeavoured  to  assume  the 
responsibilities  and  duties  of  her  new  position,  but  there 
seemed  little  for  her  to  do,  for  the  big  household  ran 
smoothly  on  oiled  wheels  under  the  capable  administra- 
tion of  Forbes  and  Mrs.  Appleyard,  with  whom,  both 
honest  and  devoted  to  the  interests  of  the  family  they 
had  served  so  long  and  faithfully,  she  knew  it  was  un- 
necessary and  unwise  to  interfere.  In  any  unusual  cir- 
cumstance they  would  refer  to  her  with  tactful  deference 
but  for  the  rest  she  knew  that,  perforce,  she  must  be 
content  to  remain  a  figure-head.  Even  her  work  —  inter- 
rupted constantly  by  the  social  duties  incumbent  on  her 
and  performed  from  a  sense  of  obligation  —  failed  to  com- 
fort and  distract.  It  was  all  so  utterly  useless  and  pur- 
poseless. The  gift  with  which  she  had  thought  to  do  so 
much  was  wasted.  She  could  do  nothing  with  it.  She 
was  no  longer  Gillian  Locke  who  had  dreamed  of  inde- 
pendence, who  had  hoped  by  toil  and  endeavour  to  clear 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  179 

the  stain  from  her  father's  name.  She  was  the  rich  Mrs. 
Craven  —  who  must  smile  to  hide  a  breaking  heart,  who 
must  play  the  part  expected  of  her,  who  must  appear 
always  care-free  and  happy.  And  the  constant  effort 
was  almost  more  than  she  could  achieve.  In  the  cease-; 
less  watch  she  set  upon  herself,  in  the  rigid  self-suppres-i 
sion  she  exercised,  it  seemed  to  her  as  if  her  true  self  had 
died,  and  her  entity  faded  into  an  automaton  that  moved] 
in  mechanical  obedience  to  the  driving  of  her  will.  Only 
during  the  long  night  hours  or  in  the  safe  seclusion  of 
the  studio  could  she  relax,  could  she  be  natural  for  a 
little  while.  That  Craven  might  never  learn  the  misery; 
of  her  life,  that  she  might  not  fail  him  as  she  had  failed 
herself,  was  her  one  prayer.  She  welcomed  eagerly  the 
advent  of  guests,  of  foreign  guests  —  more  exigent  in 
their  demands  upon  her  society  —  particularly;  with  the 
house  filled  the  time  of  host  and  hostess  was  fully  occu- 
pied and  the  difficult  days  passed  more  easily,  more 
quickly.  The  weeks  they  spent  alone  she  dreaded;  from 
the  morning  greeting  in  the  breakfast  room  to  the 
moment  when  he  gave  her  the  quiet  "Good-night"  that 
might  have  come  from  an  undemonstrative  brother,  she 
was  in  terror  lest  an  unguarded  word,  a  chance  expres- 
sion, might  tell  him  what  she  sought  to  keep  from  him. 
But  so  insensible  did  his  own  constant  pre-occupation 
of  mind  make  him  appear  of  much  that  passed,  that 
she  feared  his  intuition  less  than  that  of  Peters  who  she 
was  convinced  had  a  very  shrewd  idea  of  the  state  of 
affairs  existing  between  them.  It  was  manifested  in 
diverse  ways;  not  by  any  spoken  word  direct  or  in- 
direct, but  by  additional  fatherly  tenderness  of  manner, 
by  unfailing  tactfulness,  by  quick  intervention  that  had 
saved  many  awkward  situations.  It  was  practically 
impossible  in  view  of  his  almost  daily  association  with 
th*  house  and  its  inmates  that  he  could  be  unaware  of 


180  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

i 

certain  facts.    But  the  wise  kindly  eyes  that  she  had' 
feared  most  were  closed  for  ever. 

The  Great  Summons  for  which  Miss  Craven  had  been 
so  calmly  prepared  had  come  more  suddenly,  more 
tragically  even  than  she  had  anticipated.  She  had  passed 
over  as  she  would  have  wished,  had  she  been  given  the 
choice,  not  in  the  awful  loneliness  of  death  but  one  of 
a  company  of  heroic  souls  who  had  voluntarily  and 

4fe->  J**'  '         '^''     •**    e< •          (  •  *"H 

willingly    stood    aside]! that    others,  might)  have,  the 
chance  to  live. 

A  few  months  after  the  marriage  on  which  she  had  set 
her  heart  the  family  curse  had  seized  her  as  suddenly 
and  as  imperatively  as  it  had  ever  done  her  nephew. 
An  exhibition  of  statuary  in  America  had  served  as  an 
adequate  excuse  and  she  had  started  at  comparatively 
short  notice,  accompanied  by  the  faithful  Mary,  after  a 
stormy  interview  with  her  doctor,  whose  gloomy  warn- 
ings she  refuted  with  the  undeniable  truism  that  one 
land  was  as  good  as  another  to  die  in.  Within  a  few 
hours  of  the  American  coast  the  tragedy,  short  and  over- 
whelming, had  occurred.  From  the  parent  ice  a 
)  thousand  miles  away  in  the  north  the  stupendous  white 
destruction  had  moved  majestically  down  its  appointed 
course  to  loom  out  of  the  pitch-black  night  with 
appalling  consequence.  A  sudden  crash,  slight  enough 
to  be  unnoticed  by  hundreds,  a  convulsive  shudder  of  the 
great  ship  like  the  death  struggle  of  a  Titan,  had  been 
followed  by  unquellable  panic,  confusion  of  darkness, 
inadequate  boats  and  jamming  bulkheads.  Miss  Craven 
and  Mary  were  among  the  first  on  deck  and  for  the  short 
space  of  time  that  remained  they  worked  side  by  side 
among  the  terror-stricken  women  and  children,  then* 
own  life-belts  early  transferred  to  dazed  mothers  who 
clutched  wild-eyed  at  wailing  babes.  Together  they  had 
stood  back  from  the  overcrowded  boati,  smiling  and 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  181 

unafraid;  together  they  had  gone  down  into  the 
mystery  of  the  deep,  two  gallant  women,  no  longer 
mistress  and  maid  but  sisters  hi  sacrifice  and  in  the 
knowledge  of  that  greater  love  for  which  they  cheerfully 
laid  down  their  lives. 

And  while  Gillian  mourned  her  bitterly  she  was  yet 
glad  that  Miss  Craven  was  spared  the  sadness  of  wit- 
nessing the  complete  failure  of  her  cherished  dream. 

In  the  little  Norman  church  toward  which  Gillian  was 
driving  there  had  been  added  yet  another  memorial  to 
a  Craven  who  had  died  tragically  and  far  from  home; 
a  record  of  disastrous  calamity  that,  beginning  four 
hundred  years  before  with  the  Elizabethan  gallant,  had 
relentlessly  pursued  an  ill-starred  family.  The  church 
lay  on  the  outskirts  of  the  village  and  close  to  the  south 
entrance  of  the  park. 

Gillian  stopped  the  carriage  for  a  few  moments  to 
speak  to  the  anxious-looking  woman  who  had  hurried 
out  from  the  creeper-covered  lodge  to  open  the  gates. 
Behind  one  of  the  casements  of  the  cottage  a  child  was 
fighting  for  life,  a  cripple,  with  an  exquisite  face,  whom 
Gillian  had  painted.  To  the  sorrowful  mother  the  eager 
tender  words,  the  soft  impulsive  hand  that  clasped  her 
own  work-roughened  palm,  the  wide  dark  eyes,  misty 
with  sympathy  were  worth  infinitely  more  than  the 
material  aid,  so  carefully  packed  by  Mrs.  Appleyard, 
that  the  footman  carried  up  the  narrow  flagged  path  to 
the  cottage  door. 

And  as  the  impatient  horses  drew  the  carriage  swiftly 
on  again  Gillian  leaned  back  in  her  seat  with  a  quiver- 
ing sigh.  The  woman  at  the  lodge,  despite  her  burden 
of  sorrow,  despite  her  humbleness,  was  yet  richer  than 
she  and,  with  intolerable  pain,  she  envied  her  the  crown- 
mg  Joy  of  womanhood  that  would  never  be  her  own. 
The  child  she  longed  for  would  never  by  the  touch  of 


182  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

baby  hands  bring  consolation  to  her  starved  and  lonely 
heart.  Her  thoughts  turned  to  her  husband  in  a  sudden 
passion  of  hopeless  love  and  longing.  To  bear  him  a 
child  —  to  hold  in  her  arms  a  tiny  replica  of  the  beloved 
figure  that  was  so  dear  to  her,  to  watch  and  rejoice  in 
the  dawning  resemblance  that  the  ardour  of  her  love 
would  make  inevitable.  .  .  .  Hastily  she  brushed  away 
the  gathering  tears  as  the  carriage  stopped  abruptly  with 
a  jingle  of  harness  at  the  lichgate. 

Coaxing  the  reluctant  Houston  from  the  seat  where  he 
still  sulked  she  tied  him  to  the  gate,  took  the  armful  of 
flowers  from  the  grave-faced  footman,  and  dismissing 
the  carriage  walked  slowly  up  the  lime-bordered  avenue. 
The  orderliness  and  beauty  of  the  churchyard  struck  her 
as  it  always  did  —  a  veritable  garden  of  sleep,  with  level 
close-shorn  turf  set  thick  with  standard  rose  trees,  that 
even  the  clustering  headstones  could  not  make  chill  and 
sombre. 

From  the  radiant  sunshine  without  she  passed  into  the 
cool  dimness  of  the  little  building.  With  its  tiny  pro- 
portions, ornate  and  numerous  Craven  memorials  and  — 
for  its  size  —  curiously  large  chancel,  it  seemed  less  the 
parish  church  it  had  become  than  the  private  chapel  for 
which  it  had  been  built.  Then  tie  house  had  been  close 
by,  but  during  the  troublous  years  of  Mary  Tudor  was 
pulled  down  and  rebuilt  on  the  present  site. 

Through  the  quiet  silence  Gillian  made  her  way  up  the 
short  central  aisle  until  she  reached  the  chancel  steps. 
For  a  few  minutes  she  knelt,  her  face  crushed  against 
the  flowers  she  held,  in  silent  passionate  prayer  that 
knew  neither  form  nor  words  —  a  soundless  supplication 
that  was  an  inchoate  appeal  to  a  God  of  infinite  under- 
standing. Then  rising  slowly  she  pushed  back  the  iron 
gate  and  went  into  the  chancel.  Directly  to  the  left  the 
new  monument  gleamed  cleanly  white  against  the  old 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST1  183 

dark  irall.  Simple  and  bold,  as  she  would  herself  have 
designed  it,  the  sculptor's  memorial  was  the  work  of  the 
greatest  genius  of  the  day  who  had  willingly  come  from 
France  at  Craven's  invitation  to  perpetuate  the  memory 
of  a  sister  artist  who  had  also  been  a  lifelong  friend. 

A  rugged  pedestal  of  green  bronze  —  with  an  inset 
panel  representing  the  tragedy  —  rose  upward  in  the 
shape  of  billowing  curling  waves  supporting  a  marble 
Christ  standing  erect  with  outstretched  pitying  hand, 
majestic  and  yet  wholly  human. 

Gillian  gazed  upward  with  quivering  lips  at  the 
Saviour's  inclined  tender  face,  and  opening  her  arms  let 
the  scented  mass  of  crimson  blossom  fall  slowly  to  the 
slab  at  her  feet  that  bore  Miss  Craven's  name  and  Mary's 
cut  side  by  side. 

"  Greater  love  hath  no  man  than  this,  that  a  man  lay  down 
his  life  for  his  friends ." 

She  read  the  words  aloud,  and  with  a  stifled  sob  slipped 
down  among  the  roses  and  carnations  that  Caro  Craven 
had  loved,  and  leaned  her  aching  head  against  the  cool 
hard  bronze.  "  Dearest,"  she  whispered,  in  an  agony 
of  tears,  "  I  wonder  can  you  hear?  I  wonder  are  you 
allowed,  where  you  are,  to  know  what  happens  here  on 
earth?  Oh,  Aunt  Caro,  cherie,  do  you  know  that  I  have 
failed  —  failed  to  bring  him  the  peace  and  consolation  I 
thought  my  love  was  strong  enough  to  give,  I  have 
tried  so  hard  to  understand,  to  help  ...  I  have 
prayed  so  earnestly  that  he  might  turn  to  me,  that  I 
might  be  to  him  what  you  would  have  me  be  ... 
but  I  have  not  been  able  ...  I  have  failed  him 
.  .  .  failed  you  .  .  .  myself.  Oh,  dearest,  do  you 
know?" 

Prone  among  the  roses,   at  the  feet  of  the  pitying 


184  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

Christ,  she  cried  aloud  in  her  desperate  loneliness  to  the 
dead  woman  who  had  given  her  the  tenderest  love  she 
had  ever  known.  The  shadows  lengthened  widely  before 
she  rose  and  drew  the  scattered  flowers  into  a  fragrant 
heap.  She  stood  for  a  while  studying  intently  the  relief 
of  the  wreck;  it  suggested  a  train  of  thought,  and  with 
a  sudden  impulse  she  traversed  the  chancel  and  sought 
among  the  memorials  of  dead  Cravens  for  the  tablets 
commemorating  those  who  had  disappeared  or  died 
tragically.  By  chance  at  first  and  later  by  design  these 
had  all  been  placed  within  the  confines  of  the  chancel 
that  formed  so  large  a  part  of  the  tiny  church.  Before 
the  florid  Italian  monument  that  recorded  all  that  was 
known  of  the  short  life  of  the  Elizabethan  adventurer 
she  paused  long,  looking  with  quickening  heart-beat  at 
the  graceful  kneeling  figure  whose  face  and  form  were 
those  of  the  man  she  loved. 

Barry  Craven  .  .  .  he  set  his  eyes  unto  the  west. 
,  Amongst  the  calamitous  record  there  were  four 
more  of  the  name  —  then*  bodies  scattered  widely  in  dis- 
tant unknown  graves,  victims  of  the  spirit  of  adventure 
and  unrest.  She  moved  slowly  from  one  to  the  other, 
reading  again  the  tragical  inscriptions  she  knew  by 
heart,  cut  as  deeply  in  her  memory  as  on  the  marble  slabs 
before  her. 

Barry  Craven  —  Lost  in  the  Amazon  Forest. 
Barry  Craven  —  In  the  silence  of  tJie  frozen  seas. 
Barry  Craven  —  Perished  in  a  sandstorm  in  the  Sahara. 
Barry  Craven  —  In  Japan. 
Barry  Craven  —  Barry  Craven. 

The  name  leaped  at  her  from  aH  sides  until,  with  a 
shudder,  she  buried  her  face  in  her  hands  to  shut  out 
the  staring  capitals  that  flamed  in  black  and  gold  before 
her  eyes.  The  dread  that  was  with  her  always  seemed 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  185 

suddenly  closer  than  it  had  ever  been,  menacing,  in- 
evitable.   Would  the  fear  that  haunted  her  day  and 
night  become  at  some  not  far  distant  time  an.  actual 
fact?   Would  the  curse  that  had  already  led  to  ten  years' 
perpetual   wandering   lay    hold   of   him    again  —  would 
he,  too,  in  quest   of  the   peace  he  had  never  found, 
disappear  as  they  had  done?    Was  it  for  this  that  he 
had  insisted  on  her  acquiring  a  knowledge  of  his  affairs? 
With  the  quick  intuition  of  love  she  had  come  to  under- 
stand the  deep  unrest   that  beset  him  periodically,  an 
unrest  she  recognised  as  wholly  apart  and  separate  from 
the  other  shadow  that  lay  across  his  life.    With  unfail- 
ing patience  she  had  learned  to  discriminate.    Covertly 
she  had  watched   him,  striving  to  fathom  the  varying 
moods  that  swayed  him,  endeavouring  to  anticipate  the 
alternating  frames  of  mind  that  made  any  definite  com- 
prehension of  his  character  so  difficult.    The  charm  of 
manner  and  apparent  serenity  that  led  others  to  think 
of  him  as  one  endowed  beyond  further  desire  with  all 
that  life  could  give  did  not  deceive  her.     He  played  a 
part,  as  she  did,  a  part  that  was  contrary  to  his  nature, 
contrary  to  his  whole    inclination.    She  guessed  at  the 
strain  on  him,  a  strain   it  seemed  impossible  for  him  to 
endure,  which  some  day  she  felt  must  inevitably  break. 
His  habitual  self-control  was  extraordinary  —  once  only 
during  their  married  life  had  he  lost  it  when  some  event, 
jarring  on  his  overstrung  nerves,  had  evoked  a  blaze  of 
anger  that  seemed  totally  out  of  proportion  to  the  cir- 
cumstance, that  would  have  given  her  proof,  had  she 
needed  one,  of  his  state  of  mind. 

His  outburst  had  been  a  perfectly  natural  reaction, 
but  while  she  admitted  the  fact  she  felt  a  nervous  dread 
of  its  recurrence. 

She  feared  anything  that  might  precipitate  the  up- 
heaval that  loomed  always  before  her  like  a  threatening 


186  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

cloud.  For  sooner  or  later  the  unrest  that  filled  him 
would  have  to  be  satisfied.  The  curse  of  Craven  would 
claim  him  again  and  he  would  leave  her.  And  she  would 
have  to  watch  him  go  and  wait  in  agony  for  his  return 
as  other  women  of  the  race  had  watched  and  agonised. 
And  if  he  went  would  he  ever  return?  or  would  she  too 
know  the  anguish  of  suspense,  the  long  drawn  horror  of 
uncertainty,  the  fading  hope  that  year  by  year  would 
become  slighter  until  at  last  it  would  vanish  altogether 
and  the  bitter  waters  of  despair  close  over  her  head?  A 
moan,  like  the  cry  of  a  wounded  animal,  broke  from  her. 
In  vivid  self -torturing  imagination  she  saw  among  the 
sinister  record  around  her  another  tablet — that  would 
mean  finality.  He  was  the  last  of  the  Cravens.  Did  it 
mean  nothing  to  him  —  had  the  sorrow  of  that  past  that 
was  unknown  to  her  but  which  had  become  woven  into 
her  own  life  so  inextricably,  so  terribly,  killed  in  him 
even  the  pride  of  race?  Had  he,  deep  down  in  the  heart 
that  was  hidden  from  her,  no  thought  of  parenthood,  na 
desire  to  perpetuate  the  family  name,  the  family 
traditions?  It  would  seem  that  he  had  not  —  and  yet 
she  wondered.  The  woman  he  had  loved  —  of  whose 
existence  she  had  convinced  herself  —  if  she  had  lived, 
or  proved  faithful,  would  he  still  have  desired  no  son? 
She  shrank  from  the  stabbing  thought  with  a  very  bitter 
sob. 

A  sudden  horror  of  her  environment  came  over  her. 
Around  her  were  suggestions  from  which  she  shuddered, 
evidences  that  raised  the  haunting  dread  with  which 
she  lived  to  a  culmination  of  fear.  It  had  never  seemed 
so  near,  so  strong.  It  was  stronger  than  her  will  to  put 
it  from  her  and  in  it,  with  inherent  superstition,  she  saw 
a  premonition.  The  little  peaceful  church  became  all  at 
once  a  place  of  terror,  a  grisly  charnel  house  of  vanished 
hopes  and  lives.  The  spirits  of  countless  Cravens  seemed 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  187 

all  about  her,  hostile,  malign,  triumphing  in  her  weak- 
ness, rejoicing  in  her  fear  —  spectral  figures  of  the  dead 
crowding,  hurrying,  threatening.  She  seemed  to  see 
them,  a  dense  and  awful  concourse,  closing  round  her, 
to  hear  them  whispering,  muttering,  jibing  —  at  her,  a 
thing  apart,  an  alien  soul  whose  presence  they  resented. 
The  clamorous  voices  rang  in  her  ears;  vague  shapes, 
illusive  and  shadowy,  appeared  to  float  before  her  eyes. 
She  shrank  from  what  seemed  the  contact  of  actual 
bodily  forms.  Unnerved  and  overwrought  she  yielded 
to  the  horror  of  her  own  imagination.  With  a  stifled 
cry  she  turned  and  fled,  her  arms  outstretched  to  fend 
from  her  the  invisible  host  that  seemed  so  real,  not 
daring  even  to  look  again  at  the  pitying  Christ  whose 
calm  serenity  formed  such  a  striking  contrast  to  her 
storm-tossed  heart. 

Blindly  she  sped  down  the  chancel  steps,  along  the 
short  central  aisle,  out  into  the  timbered  porch,  where 
she  blundered  sharply  into  somebody  who  was  on  the 
point  of  entering.  Who,  it  did  not  at  the  moment  seem 
to  matter  —  enough  that  it  was  a  human  creature,  real 
and  tangible,  to  whom  she  clung  trembling  and  inco- 
herent. A  strong  arm  held  her,  and  against  its  strength 
she  leaned  for  a  few  moments  in  the  weakness  of  re- 
action from  the  nervous  strain  through  which  she  had 
passed.  Then  as  she  slowly  regained  control  of  herself 
she  realised  the  awkwardness  of  her  position,  and  her 
cheeks  burned  hotly.  She  drew  back,  her  fingers  un- 
curling from  the  tweed  coat  they  clutched  so  tightly, 
and,  trying  to  slip  clear  of  the  arm  that  still  lay  about 
her  shoulders,  looked  up  shyly  with  murmured  thanks. 

Then:  "David,"  she  cried.  "Oh,  David "  and 

burst  into  tears.  Guiding  her  to  the  bench  that  rested 
against  the  side  of  the  porch  Peters  drew  her  down  be- 
side him.  "Just  David,"  he  said,  with  rather  a  sad 


188  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

little  smile,  "I  was  passing  and  Mouston  told  me  you 
were  here."  He  spoke  slowly,  giving  her  time  to  recover 
herself,  thanking  fate  that  she  had  collapsed  into 
his  arms  rather  than  into  those  of  some  chattering 
village  busybody.  He  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  her  face 
as  she  came  through  the  church  door  and  knew  that  her 
agitation  was  caused  by  something  more  than  sorrow  for 
Miss  Craven,  great  as  that  sorrow  was.  He  had  seen 
fear  in  the  hunted  eyes  that  looked  unrecognisingly  into 
his  —  a  fear  that  he  somehow  resented  with  a  feeling  of 
helpless  anger. 

The  affection  he  had  for  her  was  such  as  he  would 
have  given  the  daughter  that  might  have  been  his  had 
providence  been  kinder.  And  with  the  insight  that  affec- 
tion gave  he  had  seen,  with  acute  uneasiness,  a  steadily 
increasing  change  in  her  during  the  last  eighteen  months. 
The  marriage  from  which  he,  as  well  as  Miss  Craven, 
had  hoped  so  much  seemed  after  all  to  have  brought  no 
joy  to  either  husband  or  wife.  With  his  intimate  knowl- 
edge and  close  association  he  saw  deeper  than  the  casual 
visitor  to  whom  the  family  life  at  the  Towers  appeared 
an  ideal  of  domestic  happiness  and  concord.  There  was 
nothing  he  could  actually  take  hold  of,  Craven  was  at 
all  times  considerate  and  thoughtful,  Gillian  a  model  of 
wifely  attention.  But  there  was  an  atmosphere  that, 
super-sensitive,  he  discerned,  a  vague  underlying  feeling 
of  tension  that  he  tried  to  persuade  himself  was  mere 
imagination  but  which  at  the  bottom  of  his  heart  he  knew 
existed.  There  had  been  times  when  he  had  seen  them 
both,  as  it  were,  off  their  guard,  had  read  in  the  face  of 
each  the  same  bitter  pain,  the  same  look  of  unsatisfied 
longing.  Possessing  in  so  high  a  degree  everything  that 
life  could  give  they  appeared  to  have  yet  missed  the 
happiness  that  should  by  all  reasoning  have  been  their* 
Whose  was  the  fault?  Caring  for  them  both  it  was  f 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  189 

question  that  he  turned  from  in  aversion,  he  had  no 
wish  to  judge  between  them,  no  desire  to  probe  their 
hidden  affairs.  Thrown  constantly  into  their  society 
while  guessing  much  he  shut  his  eyes  to  more.  But 
anxiety  remained,  fostered  by  the  memory  of  the  tragedy 
of  Barry's  father  and  mother.  Was  he  fated  to  see  just 
such  another  tragedy  played  out  before  him  with  no 
power  to  avert  the  ruin  of  two  more  lives?  The  pity  of 
it!  He  could  do  nothing  and  his  helplessness  galled  him. 

To-day  as  he  sat  in  the  little  porch  with  Gillian's  hand 
clasped  in  his  he  felt  more  than  ever  the  extreme  delicacy 
of  his  position.  Intuitively  he  guessed  that  he  was 
nearer  than  he  had  ever  been  to  penetrating  the  cloud 
that  shadowed  her  life  and  Barry's  but  with  equal  intuition 
he  knew  he  must  convey  no  hint  of  his  understanding. 
He  gauged  her  shy  sensitive  mind  too  accurately  and 
his  own  loyalty  debarred  him  from  forcing  such  a  con- 
fidence. Instead  he  spoke  as  though  the  visit  to 
Miss  Craven's  memorial  must  naturally  be  the  cause  of 
her  agitation. 

"Why  come,  my  dear,  if  it  distresses  you?"  he  said, 
in  quiet  remonstrance;  "she  would  not  misunderstand. 
She  had  the  sanest,  the  healthiest  conception  of  death. 
She  died  nobly  —  willingly.  It  would  sadden  her  im- 
measurably if  she  knew  how  you  grieved."  Her  fingers 
worked  convulsively  in  his.  "I  know  —  I  know,"  she 
whispered,  "  but,  oh,  David,  I  miss  her  so  —  so  inexpress- 
ibly." "We  all  do,"  he  answered;  "one  cannot  lose 
a  friend  like  Caro  Craven  lightly.  But  while  we  mourn 
the  dead  we  have  the  living  to  consider  —  and  you  have 
Barry,"  he  added,  with  almost  cruel  deliberation.  She 
faced  him  with  steady  eyes  from  which  she  had  brushed 
all  trace  of  tears. 

"Barry  understands,"  she  said  with  quick  loyalty; 
"he  mourns  her  too  —  but  he  doesn't  need  her  as  I  do." 


190  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

It  was  an  undeniable  truth  that  reduced  Peters  to 
silence  and  for  a  while  Gillian  also  was  silent.  Then  she 
turned  to  him  again  with  a  little  tremulous  smile,  the 
colour  flooding  her  delicate  face. 

"I'm  glad  it  was  only  you,  David,  just  now.  Please 
forget  it.  I  don't  know  what's  the  matter  with  me  to-day, 
I  let  my  nerves  get  the  upper  hand  —  I'm  tired  —  the 
sun  was  hot " 

"So  of  course  you  sent  the  carriage  away  and  proposed 
walking  two  miles  home  by  way  of  a  rest  cure!"  he 
interrupted,  jumping  up  with  alacrity,  and  taking  advan- 
tage of  the  turn  in  the  conversation.  "Luckily  I've  got 
the  car.  Plenty  of  room  for  you  and  the  pampered  one. " 
And  waving  aside  her  protests  he  tucked  her  into  the 
little  two-seater,  bundling  Mouston  unceremoniously 
in  after  her. 

The  village  school  WPS  near  the  church,  and  while 
Peters  steered  the  car  carefully  through  groups  of 
children  who  were  loitering  in  the  road  she  sat  silent 
beside  him,  wondering,  in  miserable  self-condemnation, 
how  much  she  had  betrayed  during  those  few  moments 
of  hysterical  outburst.  Resolutely  she  determined  that 
she  would  be  strong,  strong  enough  to  put  away  the 
dread  that  haunted  her,  strong  enough  to  meet  trouble 
only  when  it  came. 

Clear  of  the  children  and  running  smoothly  through 
the  park  Peters  condescended  to  break  the  silence. 

"How  went  Scotland?"  he  asked,  slowing  down  behind 
a  frightened  fawn  who  was  straying  on  the  carriage  road 
and  cantering  ahead  of  the  car  in  panicky  haste.  "Your 
letters  were  not  satisfactory. " 

"I  wasn't  taught  to  write  letters.  I  never  had  any  to 
write,"  she  said  with  a  smile  that  made  the  sensitive 
man  beside  her  wince.  "I  did  my  best,  David,  dear. 
And  there  wasn't  much  to  tell.  There  were  only  men  — 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  191 

Barry  said  he  couldn't  stand  women  with  the  guns  again 
after  the  bother  they  were  last  year.  They  were  nice 
men,  shy  silent  creatures,  big  game  hunters  mostly,  and 
two  doctors  who  have  been  doing  research  work  in  Central 
Africa.  When  any  of  them  could  be  induced  to  talk  of 
their  experiences  it,  was  a  revelation  to  me  of  what  men 
will  endure  and  yet  consider  enjoyment.  You  would 
have  liked  them,  David.  Why  didn't  you  come?  It  would 
have  done  you  more  good  than  that  horrid  little  yacht. 
And  we  were  alone  the  last  two  weeks  —  we  missed  you, " 
she  added  reproachfully. 

Peters  had  had  his  own  reasons  for  absenting  himself 
from  the  Scotch  lodge,  reasons  that,  connected  as  they 
were  with  Craven  and  his  wife,  he  could  not  enlarge 
upon.  He  turned  the  question  with  a  laugh. 

"The  yacht  was  better  suited  to  a  crusty  old  bachelor, 
my  dear,"  he  smiled.  Then  he  gave  her  a  searching 
glance.  "  And  what  did  you  do  all  day  long  by  yourself 
while  the  men  were  on  the  hills?" 

She  gave  a  little  shrug. 

"  I  sketched  —  and  —  oh,  lots  of  things, "  she  answered, 
rather  vaguely.  "There's  always  plenty  to  do  wherever 
you  are  if  you  take  the  trouble  to  look  for  it. " 

"Which  most  people  don't,"  he  replied,  bringing  the 
car  to  a  standstill  before  the  front  door. 

"Is  Barry  back  from  London?" 

"Coming  this  afternoon.  Thanks  for  the  lift,  David, 
you've  been  a  Good  Samaritan  this  afternoon.  I  don't 
think  I  could  have  walked.  Goodbye  —  and  please  for- 
get," she  whispered. 

He  smile  reassuringly  and  waved  his  hand  as  he  restarted 
the  car. 

Calling  to  Houston,  who  was  rolling  happily  on  the 
cool  grass,  she  went  slowly  into  the  house.  With  the 
poodle  rushing  round  her  she  mounted  thoughtfully  the 


192  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

wide  stairs  and  turned  down  the  corridor  leading  to  th« 
studio.  It  seemed  of  all  rooms  the  one  best  suited  tc 
her  mood.  She  wanted  to  be  alone,  beyond  the  reach 
of  any  chance  caller,  beyond  the  possibility  of  interrup- 
tion, and  it  was  understood  by  all  that  in  the  studio  she 
must  not  be  disturbed. 

In  the  passage  she  met  her  maid  and,  giving  her  her 
hat  and  gloves,  ordered  tea  to  be  sent  to  her. 

Mouston  trotted  on  ahead  into  the  room  with  the  con- 
fident air  of  a  proprietor,  fussily  inspecting  the  contents 
with  the  usual  canine  interest  as  if  suspicious  that  some 
familiar  article  of  furniture  had  been  removed  during  his 
absence  and  anxious  to  reassure  himself  that  all  things 
were  as  he  had  left  them.  Then  he  curled  up  with  a 
satisfied  grunt  on  the  chesterfield  beside  which  he  knew 
tea  would  be  placed.  Gillian  looked  about  her  with  a 
sigh.  The  room,  much  as  she  loved  it,  had  never  been 
the  same  to  her  since  tLat  December  afternoon  that 
seemed  so  much  longer  than  a  bare  eighteen  months  ago. 
The  peace  it  had  given  formerly  was  gone.  Now  there 
was  associated  with  it  always  the  memory  of  bitter  pain. 
She  had  never  been  able  to  recapture  the  old  feeling  of 
freedom  and  happiness  it  had  inspired.  It  was  her  refuge 
still,  where  she  came  to  wrestle  with  herself  in  solitude, 
where  she  sought  forgetfulness  in  long  hours  of  work 
but  it  was  no  longer  the  antechamber  to  a  castle  of 
dreams.  There  were  no  dreams  left,  only  a  crushing 
numbling  reality.  She  thought  of  her  husband,  and  the 
question  that  was  always  in  her  mind  seemed  to-day 
more  than  ever  insistent.  Why  had  he  married  her? 
The  reason  he  had  given  had  been  disproved  by  his  sub- 
sequent attitude.  He  had  asked  her  to  take  pity  on  a 
lonely  man  —  and  he  had  given  her  no  opportunity.  She 
had  tried  by  every  means  in  her  power  to  get  nearer  10 
him,  to  be  to  him  what  she  thought  he  meant  her  to  b» 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  193 

and  all  her  endeavour  had  come  to  nothing.  Had  she 
tried  enough,  done  enough?  Miserably  she  wondered 
would  another  have  succeeded  where  she  had  failed? 
And  had  she  failed  because,  after  all,  the  reason  he  had 
given  was  no  true  reason?  And  suddenly,  for  the  first 
time,  hi  a  vivid  flash  of  illuminating  comprehension  she 
seemed  to  realise  the  true  reason  and  the  quixotic  gen- 
erosity that  had  prompted  it.  It  was  as  if  a  veil  had 
been  rudely  torn  from  before  her  eyes.  It  explained 
much,  letting  in  an  entirely  new  light  upon  many  things 
that  had  puzzled  her.  It  placed  her  in  a  new  position, 
changing  her  whole  mental  standpoint.  How  could  she 
have  been  so  stupidly  blind,  so  dense  —  how  could  she  have 
misunderstood?  He  had  lied  to  her,  a  kindly  noble 
lie,  but  a  lie  notwithstanding  —  he  had  married  her  out  of 
pity,  to  provide  for  her  in  the  lack  of  faith  he  had  in 
her  power  to  provide  for  herself.  To  him,  then,  her 
dreams  of  independence  had  been  only  a  childish 
ambition  that  he  judged  unsubstantial,  and  in  his 
dilemma  he  had  conceived  it  his  duty  to  do  what  seemed 
to  her  now  a  thing  intolerable.  A  burning  wave  of  shame 
went  through  her.  She  was  humiliated  to  the  very  dust, 
crushed  with  the  sense  of  obligation.  She  was  only  another 
burden  thrust  upon  him  by  a  man  who  had  had  no  claim 
to  his  liberality.  Her  father  —  the  superman  of  her 
childish  dreams!  How  had  he  dared?  If  love  for  him  had 
not  died  years  before  it  would  have  died  at  that  moment 
in  the  fierce  resentment  that  burned  in  her.  But  to  the 
man  who  had  so  willingly  accepted  such  an  imposition  her 
heart  went  out  in  greater  love  and  deeper  gratitude  than 
she  had  yet  known. 

Yet,  how,  with  this  new  knowledge  searing  her  soul, 
could  she  ever  face  him  again?  She  longed  to  creep  away 
and  hide  like  a  stricken  animal  —  and  he  was  coming 
home  to-day.  Within  a  few  hours  she  would  have  to 


194  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

meet  Mm,  conscious  at  last  of  the  full  extent  of  her  in- 
debtedness and  conscious  also  of  the  impossibility  of 
communicating  her  discovery.  For  she  knew  that  she 
could  never  bring  herself  to  refer  to  it,  and  she  knew 
him  well  enough  to  be  aware  that  any  such  reference  was 
out  of  the  question.  The  gulf  between  them  was  too 
wide.  The  two  days  she  had  spent  alone  at  the  Towers 
had  seemed  interminable,  but  with  a  revulsion  of  feeling 
she  wished  now  that  his  coming  could  be  delayed.  She 
shrank  from  even  the  thought  of  seeing  him.  Though 
she  called  herself  coward  she  determined  to  postpone  the 
meeting  she  dreaded  until  dinner,  when  the  presence  of 
Forbes  and  a  couple  of  footmen  would  brace  her  to  meet 
the  situation  and  give  her  time  to  prepare  for  the  later 
more  difficult  hours  when  she  would  be  alone  with  him. 
For  he  made  a  practice,  rigidly  adhered  to,  of  sitting 
with  her  in  the  evenings  during  the  short  time  she  re- 
mained downstairs.  He  was  punctilious  in  that  courtesy 
as  in  all  other  acts  of  consideration.  His  own  bed-hour 
was  very  much  later  and  she  often  wondered  what  he 
did,  what  were  his  thoughts,  alone  in  the  solitary  study 
that  was  his  refuge  as  the  studio  was  hers. 

But  she  had  come  almost  to  fear  the  evening  hours 
they  spent  together,  the  feeling  of  constraint  was  becom- 
ing more  and  more  an  embarrassment.  The  last  two 
weeks  in  Scotland  had  been  more  difficult  than  any  pre- 
ceding them.  Craven's  restlessness  had  been  more 
apparent,  more  pronounced.  And  looking  back  on  it 
now  she  wondered  whether  it  was  association  with  the 
men  with  whom  he  had  travelled  and  shot  in  distant 
countries  that  was  stirring  in  him  more  acutely  the 
wander-hunger  that  was  in  his  blood.  During  the  after 
dinner  reminiscences  in  the  Scotch  shooting  lodge  he  had 
himself  been  curiously  silent,  but  he  had  sat  listening 
with  a  kind  of  fierce  intentness  that  to  her  anxious 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  195 

watching  eyes  had  been  like  the  forced  calm  of  a  caged 
animal  enduring; captivity  with  seeming  resignation  but 
cherishing  always  thoughts  of  escape. 

It  was  then  that  her  vague  dread  leaped  suddenly  into 
concrete  fear.  An  incident  that  had  occurred  a  few  days 
after  the  big  game  hunters  had  left  them  had  further 
disquieted  her.  On  going  to  him  for  advice  on  some 
domestic  difficulty  she  had  found  him  poring  over  a 
large  map.  He  had  rolled  it  up  at  her  approach  and  his 
manner  had  made  it  impossible  for  her  to  express  an 
interest  that  would  otherwise  have  seemed  natural. 
With  the  reticence  to  which  she  had  schooled  herself  she 
had  made  no  comment,  but  the  thought  of  that  rolled 
up  hidden  canvas  and  its  possible  significance  remained 
with  her.  It  might  mean  only  a  renewed  interest  hi  the 
scenes  of  past  exploits  —  fervently  she  hoped  it  did.  But 
it  might  also  mean  the  projection  of  new  activities.  .  .  . 

The  arrival  of  a  footman  bringing  tea  put  a  period  to 
her  thoughts.  While  the  man  arranged  the  simple 
necessaries  that  were  more  suited  to  the  studio  than  the 
elaborate  display  Forbes  considered  indispensable  down- 
stairs, she  crossed  the  room  to  an  easel  where  stood  a 
half-finished  picture.  She  looked  at  it  critically.  Was 
he  right  —  was  there,  after  all,  nothing  in  her  work  but 
the  mediocre  endeavour  of  an  amateur?  She  had  been 
so  confident,  so  sure.  And  the  master  in  Paris  who  had 
taught  her  —  he  also  had  been  confident  and  sure.  Yet 
as  she  studied  the  uncompleted  sketch  before  her  she  felt 
her  confidence  waver.  It  had  not  satisfied  her  while  she 
was  working  on  it,  it  seemed  now  hopelessly  and  utterly 
bad.  With  a  heavy  sigh  she  stared  at  it  despondently, 
seeing  in  it  the  failure  of  all  her  hopes.  Then  in  quick 
recoil  courage  came  again.  One  piece  of  bad  work  did 
not  constitute  failure  —  she  would  not  admit  failure- 
She  had  worked  on  it  at  a  time  of  extreme  depression 


196  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

when  all  the  world  had  seemed  black  and  hopeless,  and 
the  deplorable  result  was  due  to  lack  of  concentration. 
She  had  allowed  her  own  disturbed  thoughts  to  intrude 
too  vividly,  and  her  wandering  attention,  her  unhappi- 
ness,  had  reacted  disastrously  on  her  work.  It  must  be 
so.  Her  own  judgment  she  might  have  doubted,  but 
the  word  of  her  teacher  —  no.  She  had  to  succeed,  she 
had  to  justify  herself,  to  justify  de  Myeres.  "  Travaillez, 
travaillez,  et  puis  encore  travaillez,"  she  murmured,  as 
she  had  heard  him  say  a  hundred  times,  and  tore  the 
sketch  across  and  across,  tossing  the  pieces  into  a  large 
wicker  basket.  With  a  little  shrug  she  turned  to  the 
tea  table  beside  which  Mouston  was  sitting  up  in  eager 
expectation,  watching  the  dancing  kettle  lid  with  solemn 
brown  eyes.  She  made  tea  and  then  drew  the  dog  close 
to  her,  hugging  him  with  almost  passionate  fervour.  It 
was  not  a  frequent  event,  but  there  were  times  when  her 
starved  affections,  craving  outlet,  were  expended  in  default 
of  other  medium  upon  the  poodle  who  gave  in  return 
a  devotion  that  was  entirely  single-minded.  Yoshio 
was  still  the  only  member  of  the  household  who 
could  touch  him  with  impunity,  and  toward  Craven  his 
attitude  was  a  curious  mixture  of  hatred  and  fear.  To 
Mouston  —  her  only  confidant  —  she  whispered  now  the 
new  projects  she  had  formed  during  the  last  two  solitary 
days  for  a  better  understanding  of  the  obscure  mind  that 
had  hitherto  baffled  her,  for  a  further  endeavour  to  break 
through  the  barrier  existing  between  them.  To  speak, 
if  only  to  a  dog,  was  relief  and  she  was  too  engrossed 
to  notice  the  sound  the  poodle's  quick  ears  caugh 
directly.  With  a  growl  he  wrenched  his  head  free  of  her 
arm  and,  startled,  she  looked  up  expecting  to  see  a 
servant. 

She  saw  instead  her  husband.    His  unexpected  appear- 
ance in  a  room  he  habitually  avoided  robbed  her,  all  un- 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  197 

prepared  to  meet  him  as  she  was,  of  the  power  of  speech. 
White-lipped  she  stared  at  him,  unable  to  formulate  even 
a  conventional  greeting,  her  heart  beating  rapidly  as  she 
watched  him  cross  the  room.  He,  too,  seemed  to  have 
no  words,  and  she  saw  with  increased  nervousness  that 
his  face  was  dark  with  obvious  displeasure.  The  silence 
that  was  fast  becoming  marked  was  broken  by  Mouston 
who  with  another  angry  snarl  leaped  suddenly  at  Craven 
with  jealous  hostility,  to  be  caught  up  swiftly  by  a  pair 
of  powerful  hands  and  flung  into  a  far  corner,  where  he 
landed  heavily  with  a  shrill  yelp  of  surprise  and  pain 
that  died  away  in  a  broken  whimper  as,  cowed  by  the 
unlooked-for  retribution,  he  crawled  under  a  big  bureau 
that  seemed  to  offer  a  safe  retreat. 

"Barry!"  Gillian's  exclamation  of  incredulous 
amazement  made  Craven  sensible  that  the  punishment 
he  had  inflicted  must  seem  to  her  unnecessarily  severe. 
She  could  not  be  expected  to  see  into  his  mind,  could  not 
possibly  know  the  feeling  of  loathing  inspired  by  the 
sight  of  the  poodle  hi  her  arms.  He  was  jealous  —  of  a 
dog  and  in  no  mood  to  curb  the  temper  that  his  jealousy 
roused. 

"I  am  sorry,"  he  said  shortly.  "I  didn't  mind  him 
going  for  me,  it's  perhaps  natural  that  he  should  —  but  I 
hate  to  see  you  kiss  the  dam'  brute,"  he  added  with  a 
sudden  violence  in  his  voice  that  braced  her  as  a  more 
temperate  explanation  would  not  have  done.  To  be  de- 
liberately cruel  to  an  animal,  no  matter  how  great  the 
provocation,  was  unlike  Craven;  she  felt  convinced  that 
Mouston  was  not  the  primary  cause  of  his  irritability. 
Something  must  have  occurred  previously  to  disturb 
him  —  the  business,  perhaps,  for  which  he  had  waited  in 
London,  and,  seeking  her,  the  scene  he  had  surprised 
had  grated  on  fretted  nerves.  He  had  never  before  com- 
mented on  her  affection  for  the  dog  who  was  her  shadow; 


198  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

lie  had  never  even  remonstrated  with  her,  as  Peters  had 
many  times,  for  spoiling  him.  His  present  attitude 
seemed  therefore  the  more  inexplicable  —  but  she  realised 
the  impossibility  of  remonstrance.  The  dog  had  behaved 
badly  and  had  suffered  for  his  indiscretion;  she  could  not 
defend  him  —  had  she  wanted  to.  And  she  did  not  want 
to.  At  the  moment  Mouston  hardly  seemed  to  matter  — 
nothing  mattered  but  the  unbearable  fact  of  Craven's 
displeasure.  If  she  could  have  known  the  real  cause  of 
that  displeasure  it  would  have  made  speech  easier.  She 
feared  to  aggravate  his  mood  but  she  knew  some  answer 
was  expected  of  her.  Silence  might  be  misconstrued. 

With  calmness  she  did  not  feel  she  forced  her  voice  to 
steadiness. 

"Most  women  make  fools  of  themselves  over  some 
animal,  faute  de  mieux,"  she  said  lightly.  "I  only  follow 
the  crowd. " 

"Is  it  faute  de  mieux  with  you?"  The  sharp  rejoinder 
struck  her  like  a  physical  blow.  Unable  to  trust  her- 
self, unable  to  check  the  quivering  of  her  lips,  she 
turned  away  to  get  another  cup  and  saucer  from  a  near 
cabinet. 

"Answer  me,  Gillian, "  he  said  tensely.  "Is  it  for 
want  of  something  better  that  you  give  so  much  affection 
to  that  cringing  beast " —  he  pointed  to  the  poodle  who 
was  crawling  abjectly  on  his  stomach  toward  her  from 
the  bureau  where  he  had  taken  refuge  —  "is  it  a  child 
that  your  arms  are  wanting  —  not  a  dog?  "  Ilia  face  was 
drawn,  and  he  stared  at  her  with  fierce  hunger  smoulder- 
ing in  his  eyes.  He  was  hurting  himself  beyond  belief  — 
was  he  hurting  her  too?  Could  anything  that  he  might 
say  touch  her,  stir  her  from  the  calm  placidity  that 
sometimes,  in  contradiction  to  his  own  restlessness,  was 
almost  more  than  he  could  tolerate?  She  had  fulfilled 
the  terms  of  their  bargain  faithfully,  apparently  satisfied 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  199 

with  its  limitation.  She  appeared  content  with  this 
damnable  life  they  were  living.  But  a  sudden  impulse 
had  come  to  him  to  assure  himself  that  his  supposition 
was  a  true  one,  that  the  outward  content  she  manifested 
did  not  cover  longings  and  desires  that  she  sought  to 
hide.  Yet  how  would  it  benefit  either  of  them  for  him 
to  wring  from  her  a  secret  to  which  he,  by  his  own  doing, 
had  no  right?  In  winning  her  consent  to  this  divided 
marriage  he  had  already  done  her  injury  enough  —  he 
need  not  make  her  life  harder.  And  just  now,  in  a  moment 
of  ungovernable  passion,  he  had  said  a  brutal  thing, 
a  thing  beyond  all  forgiveness.  His  face  grew  more  drawn 
as  he  moved  nearer  to  her. 

"Gillian,  I  asked  you  a  question,"  he  began  unsteadily. 
She  confronted  him  swiftly.  Her  eyes  were  steady  under 
his,  though  the  pallor  of  her  face  was  ghastly. 

"You  are  the  one  person  who  has  no  right  to  ask  me 
that  question,  Barry."  There  was  no  anger  in  her  voice, 
there  was  not  even  reproach,  but  a  gentle  dignity  that 
almost  unmanned  him.  He  turned  away  with  a  gesture 
of  infinite  regret. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said,  in  a  strangled  voice. 
"I  was  a  cur  —  what  I  said  was  damnable."  He  faced 
her  again  with  sudden  vehemence.  "I  wish  to  God  I 
had  left  you  free.  I  had  no  right  to  marry  you,  to  ruin 
your  life  with  my  selfishness,  to  bar  you  from  the  love 
and  children  that  should  have  been  yours.  You  might 
have  met  a  man  who  would  have  given  you  both,  who 
would  have  given  you  the  full  happy  life  you  ought  to 
have.  In  my  cursed  egoism  I  have  done  you  almost  the 
greatest  injury  a  man  can  do  a  woman.  My  God,  I 
wonder  you  don't  hate  me ! " 

She  forced  back  the  words  that  rushed  to  her  lips. 
,ehe  knew  the  danger  of  an  unconsidered  answer,  the 


too  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

danger  of  the  whole  situation.  The  durability  of  their 
future  life  seemed  to  depend  on  her  reply,  its  continu- 
ance to  hang  on  a  slender  thread  that,  perilously  strained, 
threatened  momentarily  to  snap.  She  was  fearful  of 
precipitating  the  crisis  she  had  long  realised  was  pend- 
ing and  which  now  seemed  drawing  to  a  head.  An  un- 
considered  word,  an  intonation  even,  might  bring  about 
the  catastrophe  she  feared. 

She  sought  for  time,  praying  for  inspiration  to  guide 
her.  The  waiting  tea  table  supplied  her  immediate 
want. 

Mechanically  she  filled  the  cups  and  cut  cake  with 
deliberate  precision  while  her  mind  worked  feverishly. 

His  distress  weighed  with  her  more  than  her  own. 

Positive  as  she  now  was  of  the  true  reason  that  had 
prompted  him  to  marry  her  she  saw  in  his  outburst  only 
another  chivalrous  attempt  to  hide  that  reason  from  her. 
He  had  purposely  endeavoured  to  misrepresent  himself, 
and,  understanding,  a  wave  of  passionate  gratitude  filled 
her. 

Her  love  was  clamouring  for  audible  expression.  If 
she  could  only  speak!  If  she  could  only  break  through 
the  restrictions  that  hampered  her,  tell  him  all  that  was 
in  her  heart,  measure  the  force  of  her  living  love  against 
the  phantom  of  that  dead  past  that  had  killed  in  him  all 
the  joy  of  life.  But  she  could  not  speak.  Pride  kept 
her  silent,  and  the  knowledge  that  she  could  not  add  to 
the  burden  he  already  bore  the  embarrassment  of  an  un- 
sought love. 

But  something  she  must  say,  and  that  before  he 
noticed  the  hestitation  that  might  rob  her  words  of  any 
worth.  Only  by  refusing  to  attach  an  undue  value  to 
the  significance  of  what  he  had  said  could  she  arrest  the 
dangerous  trend  of  the  conversation  and  bring  it  to  a 
safer  level. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  201 

She  sat  down  slowly,  re-arranging  the  simple  tray  with 
ostentatious  care. 

"You  didn't  force  me  to  marry  you,  Barry,"  she  said 
quietly.  "I  knew  what  I  was  doing,  I  realised  the  diffi- 
culties that  might  arise.  But  you  have  nothing  to  re- 
proach yourself  with.  You  have  been  kind  and  con- 
siderate in  everything.  I  am  enormously  grateful  to  you 
—  and  I  am  very  content  with  my  life.  Please  believe 
that.  There  is  only  one  thing  that  I  could  wish  changed; 
you  said  that  we  were  to  be  friends  —  and  you  have  let 
me  be  only  a  fair  weather  friend.  Won't  you  let  me 
sometimes  share  and  help  in  the  difficulties,  as  well  as  in 
the  pleasures?  Your  interests,  your  obligations  are  so 

great "  she  went  on  hurriedly,  lest  he  should  think 

she  was  aiming  at  deeper,  more  personal  concerns  —  **I 
can't  help  knowing  that  there  must  be  difficulties.  If 

you  would  only  let  me  take  my  part "    She  looked 

up,  meeting  his  gloomy  stare  at  last,  and  a  faint  appeal 
crept  into  her  eyes.  "  I'm  not  a  child,  Barry,  to  be  shown 
only  the  sunny  side  of  life. " 

An  indescribable  expression  flitted  across  his  face, 
changing  it  marvellously. 

"I  would  never  have  you  know  the  dark  side,"  he 
said  briefly,  as  he  took  the  cup  she  held  out  to  him. 

She  was  conscious  that  the  tension,  though  lessened 
had  not  altogether  disappeared.  There  was  in  his 
manner  a  constraint  that  set  her  heart  throbbing  pain- 
fully. She  glanced  furtively  from  time  to  time  at  his 
stern  worn  face,  and  the  weariness  in  his  eyes  brought 
a  lump  into  her  throat. 

He  talked  spasmodically,  of  friends  whom  he  had  seen 
in  London,  of  a  hundred  and  one  trivial  matters,  but  of 
the  business  that  had  kept  him  in  town  he  said  nothing 
and  she  wondered  what  had  been  in  his  mind  when  he 
had  departed  from  an  established  rule  and  deliberately- 


202  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

sought  her  in  a  room  that  he  never  entered.  Had  he 
come  with  any  express  intention,  any  confidence  that 
had  been  thwarted  by  Houston's  stupid  behaviour?  She 
stifled  a  sigh  of  disappointment.  He  might  never  again 
be  moved  by  the  same  impulse. 

With  growing  anxiety  she  noticed  that  his  restlessness 
was  greater  even  than  usual.  Refusing  a  second  cup  of 
tea  he  lit  a  cigarette,  pacing  up  and  down  as  he  talked, 
jhis  hands  plunged  deep  in  his  pockets. 

In  one  of  the  silences  that  punctuated  his  jerky  periods 
lie  paused  by  a  little  table  on  which  lay  a  portfolio,  and 
lifting  it  idly  looked  at  the  sketches  it  contained.  With 
a  sudden  look  of  apprehension  Gillian  started  and  made 
a,  half  movement  as  if  to  rise,  then  with  a  shrug  she  sank 
back  on  the  sofa,  watching  him  intently.  It  was  her 
private  sketch  book,  and  there  was  in  it  one  portrait  in 
particular,  his  own,  that  she  had  no  wish  for  him  to  see. 
J3ut  remonstrance  would  only  call  attention  to  what  she 
lioped  might  pass  unnoticed.  Craven  turned  over  the 
sketches  slowly.  He  had  seen  little  of  his  wife's  work 
since  their  marriage,  she  was  shy  of  submitting  it  to  him, 
and  with  the  policy  of  non-interference  he  had  adopted 
he  had  expressed  no  curiosity.  He  recognised  many  faces, 
and,  recognising,  remembered  wherein  lay  her  special 
skill.  He  found  himself  looking  for  characteristics  that 
were  known  to  him  in  the  portraits  of  the  men  and 
•women  he  was  studying.  There  was  no  attempt  at  con- 
cealment —  vices  and  virtues,  liberality  of  mind,  pettiness 
of  soul  were  set  forth  in  naked  truth.  A  sympathetic 
picture  of  Peters  arrested  him,  though  the  name  written 
beneath  it  puzzled.  He  looked  at  the  kindly  generous 
countenance  with  its  friendly  half-sad  eyes  and  tender 
mouth  with  a  feeling  of  envy.  He  would  have  given 
years  of  his  life  to  have  possessed  the  p^ace  of  mind  that 
was  manifested  in  the  calm  serenity  of  his  agent's  face. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  203 

His  lips  tightened  as  he  laid  the  sketch  down.  With  his 
thoughts  lingering  on  the  last  portrait  for  a  second  or 
two  he  looked  at  the  next  one  absently.  Then  a  stifled 
exclamation  broke  from  him  and  he  peered  at  it  closer. 
And,  watching,  Gillian  drew  a  deep  breath,  clenching 
her  hands  convulsively.  He  stood  quite  still  for  what 
seemed  an  eternity,  then  came  slowly  across  the  room 
and  stood  directly  in  front  of  her.  And  for  the  first  time 
she  was  afraid  of  meeting  his  eyes. 

"Do  I  look  like  — that?" 

Her  head  drooped  lower,  her  fingers  twining  and  inter- 
twining nervously,  and  her  dry  lips  almost  refused  their 
office. 

"I  have  seen  you  like  that,"  very  slowly  and  almost 
inaudibly,  but  he  caught  the  reluctant  admission. 

"So  —  damnable?" 

She  flinched  from  the  loathing  in  his  voice. 

"I  am  sorry "  she  murmured  faintly. 

"Good  God!"  the  profanity  was  wrung  from  himv 
but  had  he  thought  of  it  he  would  have  considered  it 
justified,  for  the  face  at  which  he  was  staring  was  the 
beautiful  tormented  face  of  a  fallen  angel.  He  looked 
with  a  kind  of  horror  at  the  hungry  passionate  eyes  fierce 
with  unsatisfied  longing,  shadowed  with  terrible  memory, 
tortured,  hopeless;  at  the  set  mouth,  a  straight  grim  line 
under  the  trim  golden  brown  moustache;  at  the  bitter- 
ness and  revolt  expressed  in  all  the  deep  cut  lines  of  the 
tragic  face.  He  laid  it  down  with  a  feeling  of  repulsion. 
She  saw  him  like  that !  The  pain  of  it  was  intolerable. 

He  laughed  with  a  harsh  mirthlessness  that  made  her 
quiver. 

"It  is  a  truer  estimation  of  my  character  than  the 
one  you  gave  me  a  few  minutes  ago,"  he  said  bitterly,, 
"and  you  may  thank  heaven  I  am  your  husband  only 
in  name.  God  keep  you  from  a  nearer  acquaintance  with 


204  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

me."  And  turning  on  his  heel  he  left  her.  Long  after 
he  had  gone  she  sat  on  motionless,  her  fingers  picking 
mechanically  at  the  chintz  cover  of  the  sofa,  staring  into 
space  with  wide  eyes  brimming  with  tears.  She  knew 
it  was  a  cruel  sketch,  but  she  had  never  meant  him  to 
see  it.  It  had  taken  shape  unconsciously  under  her  hand, 
and  while  she  hated  it  she  had  kept  it  because  of  the 
remarkable  likeness  and  because  it  was  the  only  picture 
she  had  of  him. 

The  dreams  of  a  better  understanding  seemed  swept 
away  by  her  own  thoughtlessness  and  folly.  She  had 
hurt  him  and  she  could  never  explain.  To  refer  to  it,  to 
try  and  make  him  understand,  would  do  more  harm  than 
good.  With  a  pitiful  sob  she  covered  her  face  with  her 
hands,  and,  beside  her,  Houston  the  pampered  cringed 
and  whimpered  unheeded  and  forgotten. 

She  had  looked  forward  to  his  return  with  such  high 
topes  and  now  they  lay  shattered  at  her  feet.  During  a 
brief  hour  that  might  have  drawn  them  nearer  together 
they  had  contrived  to  hurt  each  other  as  it  must  seem  to 
both  by  deliberate  intent.  For  herself  she  knew  that 
she  was  innocent  of  any  such  intention  —  but  was  he? 
He  had  never  hurt  her  before,  even  in  his  most  difficult 
moods  he  had  been  to  her  unfailingly  kind  and  con- 
siderate. But  to-day  —  shudderingly  she  wondered  did  it 
mark  a  new  era  in  their  relations?  And  in  miserable 
futile  longing  she  wished  that  this  afternoon  had  never 
been. 

After  what  had  occurred  the  thought  of  facing  him 
across  a  table  during  an  interminable  dinner  and  sitting 
with  him  alone  for  the  long  hours  of  a  summer  evening 
drove  her  to  a  state  bordering  on  panic.  She  pushed 
the  thick  hair  off  her  forhead  with  a  little  gasp.  It  was 
cowardly  —  but  she  could  not,  would  not.  Despising 
herself  she  crossed  the  room  to  the  telephone. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  205 

At  the  Hermitage  Peters  was  indulging  in  a  well-earned 
rest  after  a  long  hot  day  that  had  been  both  irksome  and 
tiring.  Wearing  an  old  tweed  coat  he  lounged  comfort- 
ably in  a  big  chair,  a  couple  of  sleepy  setters  at  his  feet, 
a  foul  and  ancient  pipe  in  full  blast.  The  room,  flooded 
with  the  evening  sun,  was  filled  with  a  heterogeneous  col- 
lection of  books  and  music  manuscript,  guns,  fishing 
rods  and  whips.  The  homely  room  had  stamped  on  it 
the  characteristics  of  its  owner.  It  was  a  room  to  work 
in,  and  equally  a  room  in  which  to  relax.  The  owner 
was  now  relaxing,  but  the  bodily  rest  he  enjoyed  did  not 
extend  to  his  mind,  which  was  very  actively  disturbed. 
His  usually  genial  face  was  furrowed  and  he  sucked  at 
the  old  pipe  with  an  energy  that  enveloped  him  in  a  haze 
of  blue  smoke.  The  ringing  of  the  telephone  in  the 
opposite  corner  of  the  room  came  as  an  unwelcome  inter- 
ruption. He  glared  at  it  resentfully,  disinclined  to 
move,  but  at  the  second  ring  rose  reluctantly  with  a 
grunt  of  annoyance,  pushing  the  drowsy  setters  to  one 
side.  He  took  down  the  receiver  with  no  undue  haste 
and  answered  the  call  gruffly,  but  his  bored  expression 
changed  rapidly  as  he  listened.  The  soft  voice  came 
clearly  but  hesitatingly: 

"Is  that  you,  David?  Could  you  come  up  to  dinner 
—  if  —  if  you're  not  going  anywhere  else  —  I've  got  a  tire- 
some headache  and  it  will  be  so  stupid  for  Barry.  I 
don't  want  him  to  be  dull  the  first  evening  at  home.  So 
if  you  could  —  please,  David " 

His  face  grew  grim  as  he  detected  the  quiver  in  the 
faltering  indecisive  words,  but  he  answered  briskly. 

"Of  course  I'll  come.  I'd  love  to,"  he  said,  with  a 
cheeriness  he  was  far  from  feeling.  He  hung  up  the 
receiver  with  a  heavy  sigh.  But  he  had  hardly  moved 
when  the  telephone  rang  again  sharply. 

"Damn  the  thing!"  he  muttered  irritably. 


206  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

This  time  a  very  different  voice,  curt  and  uncom~ 
promising: 

" that  you,  Peter?  —  Yes!  —  Doing  anything  to- 
night? —  Not?  —  Then  for  God's  sake  come  up  to  dinner. " 
And  then  the  receiver  jammed  down  savagely. 

With  grimmer  face  Peters  moved  thoughtfully  across 
the  room  and  touched  a  bell  in  the  wall  by  the  fireplace. 
His  call  was  answered  with  the  usual  promptness,  and 
when  he  had  given  the  necessary  orders  and  the  man 
liad  gone  he  laid  aside  his  pipe,  tidied  a  few  papers,  and 
went  slowly  to  an  adjoining  room. 

The  Hermitage  was  properly  the  dower  house  of  the 
Towers,  but  for  the  last  two  generations  had  not  been 
required  as  such.  The  room  Peters  now  entered  had 
originally  been  the  drawing  room,  but  for  the  thirty 
years  he  had  lived  in  the  house  he  had  kept  it  as  a  music 
room.  Panelled  in  oak,  with  polished  floor  and  innocent 
of  hangings,  the  only  furniture  a  gran.1  piano  and  a  por- 
trait, it  was  at  once  a  sanctuary  an<l  a  shrine.  And  dur- 
ing those  thirty  years  to  only  two  people  had  he  given 
the  right  of  entrance.  To  the  woman  whose  portrait 
hung  on  the  wall  and,  latterly,  to  the  girl  who  had  suc- 
ceeded her  as  mistress  of  Craven  Towers.  To  this  room, 
to  the  portrait  and  the  piano,  he  brought  all  his  difficul- 
ties; it  was  here  he  wrestled  with  the  loneliness  and  sad- 
ness that  the  world  had  never  suspected.  To-night  he 
felt  that  only  the  peace  that  room  invariably  brought 
would  enable  him  to  fulfil  the  task  he  had  in  hand. 

Craven  was  alone  in  the  hall  when  he  arrived,  and  it 
was  not  until  the  gong  sounded  that  Gillian  made  a 
tardy  appearance,  very  pale  but  with  a  feverish  spot  on 
either  cheek.  Peters'  quick  eye  noticed  the  absence  of 
the  black  shadow  that  was  always  at  her  heels.  "Where 
is  the  faithful  Mouston?  Not  in  disgrace,  surely  —  the 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  207 

paragon?"  he  teased,  and  was  disconcerted  at  the  pain- 
ful flush  that  overspread  her  face.  But  she  thrust  her 
arm  through  his  and  forced  a  little  laugh.  "Mouston  is 
becoming  rather  incorrigible,  I'm  afraid  I've  spoiled  him 
hopelessly.  I'll  tell  him  you  inquired,  it  will  cheer  him 
up,  poor  darling.  He's  doing  penance  with  a  bone  up- 
stairs. Shall  we  go  in  —  I'm  famished. " 

But  as  dinner  progressed  she  did  not  appear  to  be 
famished,  for  she  ate  scarcely  anything,  but  talked  fit- 
fully with  jerky  nervousness.  Craven,  too,  was  at  first 
almost  entirely  silent,  and  on  Peters  fell  the  main  burden 
of  conversation,  until  by  a  direct  question  he  managed 
to  start  his  host  on  a  topic  that  was  of  interest  to  both 
and  lasted  until  Gillian  left  them. 

In  the  drawing  room,  after  she  had  finished  her  coffee, 
she  opened  the  piano  and  then  subsided  wearily  on  to  the 
big  sofa.  The  emotions  of  the  day  and  the  effort  of 
appearing  at  dinner  had  exhausted  her,  and  in  her 
despondency  the  future  had  never  seemed  so  black,  so 
beset  with  difficulties.  While  she  was  immeasurably 
thankful  for  Peters'  presence  to-night  she  knew  it  was 
impossible  for  him  to  act  continually  as  a  buffer  between 
them.  But  from  the  problem  of  to-morrow,  and  innum- 
erable to-morrows,  she  turned  with  a  fixed  determination 
to  live  for  the  moment.  A  chaque  jour  suffii  sa  peine. 

She  lay  with  relaxed  muscles  and  closed  eyes.  It 
seemed  a  long  while  before  the  men  joined  her.  She 
wondered  what  they  were  talking  about  —  whether  ta 
Peters  would  be  imparted  the  information  that  had  been 
withheld  from  her.  For  the  feeling  of  a  nearly  impend- 
ing calamity  was  strong  within  her.  When  at  last  they 
came  she  looked  with  covert  anxiety  from  one  to  the 
other,  but  then-  faces  told  her  nothing.  For  a  few 
minutes  Peters  lingered  beside  her  chatting  and  then 


SOS  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

gravitated  toward  the  piano,  as  she  had  hoped  he  would. 
Arranging  the  heaped  up  cushions  more  comfortably 
around  her  she  gave  herself  up  to  the  delight  of  his  music 
and  it  seeraed  to  her  that  she  had  never  heard  him  play 
so  well. 

Near  her  Craven  was  standing  before  the  fern-filled  fire- 
place, leaning  against  the  mantel,  a  cigarette  drooping 
between  his  lips.  From  where  she  lay  she  could  watch 
him  unperceived,  for  his  own  gaze  was  directed  through 
the  open  French  window  out  on  to  the  terrace,  and  she 
studied  his  set  handsome  face  with  sorrowful  attention. 
He  appeared  to  be  thinking  deeply,  and,  from  his  detached 
manner,  heedless  of  the  harmony  of  sound  that  filled 
the  room.  But  her  supposition  was  soon  rudely  shaken. 
Peters  had  paused  in  his  playing.  When  a  few  moments 
later  the  plaintive  melody  of  an  operatic  air  stole  through 
the  room  she  saw  her  husband  start  violently,  and  the 
terrible  pallor  she  had  witnessed  once  before  sweep 
across  his  face.  She  clenched  her  teeth  on  her  lip  to 
keep  back  the  cry  that  rose,  and  breathlessly  watched 
Jiiin  stride  across  the  room  and  drop  an  arresting  hand 
on  Peters'  shoulder.  "For  God's  sake  don't  play  that 
damned  thing!"  she  heard  him  say  in  a  voice  that  was 
almost  unrecognisable.  And  then  he  passed  out  swiftly 
into  the  garden. 

A  spasm  of  jealous  agony  shook  her  from  head  to  foot. 
With  quick  intuition  she  guessed  that  the  air  that  was 
unknown  to  her  must  be  connected  in  some  way  with 
the  sorrow  that  darkened  his  life,  and  the  spectre  of  the 
past  she  tried  to  forget  seemed  to  rise  and  grin  at  her 
triumphantly.  She  shivered.  Would  its  power  last  until 
life  ended?  Would  it  stand  between  them  always,  rival- 
ling her,  thwarting  her  every  effort? 

For  a  long  time  she  dared  not  look  at  Peters,  who  had 
responded  without  hesitation  to  Craven's  unceremonious 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  209 

request,  but  when  at  length  she  summoned  courage  to 
glance  at  him  it  seemed  as  if  he  had  already  forgotten  the 
interruption.  His  face  wore  the  absent,  almost  spiritual 
look  that  was  usual  when  he  was  at  the  piano  and  his 
playing  gave  no  indication  of  either  annoyance  or  sur- 
prise. She  breathed  a  quick  sigh  of  relief  and,  slightly 
altering  her  position,  lay  where  she  could  see  the  solitary 
figure  on  the  terrace.  Erect  by  the  stone  ballustrade,  his 
arms  folded  across  his  chest,  staring  intently  into  the 
night  as  if  his  gaze  went  far  beyond  the  confines  of  the 
great  park,  he  seemed  to  her  a  symbol  of  incarnate  lone- 
liness, and  her  heart  contracted  at  the  thought  of  the 
suffering  and  solitude  she  might  not  share.  If  he  would 
only  turn  to  her!  If  she  had  only  the  right  to  go  to  him 
and  plead  her  love,  beg  the  confidence  she  craved,  and 
stand  beside  him  in  his  sorrow!  But  he  stood  alone, 
beyond  her  reach,  even  unaware  of  her  longing. 

The  slow  tears  gathered  thick  in  her  eyes. 

For  long  after  the  keyboard  became  an  indistinguish- 
able blur  Peters  played  on  untiringly.  But  at  last  he 
rose,  closed  the  piano  and  turned  on  an  electric  lamp  that 
stood  near. 

"Eleven  o'clock,"  he  exclaimed  contritely.  "Bless 
my  soul,  why  didn't  you  stop  me!  I  forget  the  time 
when  I'm  playing.  I've  tired  you  out.  Go  to  bed,  you 
pale  child.  I'm  walking  home,  I'll  see  Barry  on  the 
terrace  as  I  pass. " 

She  slid  from  the  sofa  and  took  his  outstretched  hands. 

"Your  playing  never  tires  me!"  she  answered,  with 
a  little  upward  glance.  "You've  magic  at  the  ends  of 
your  fingers,  David  dear. " 

,  She  went  to  the  open  window  to  watch  him  go,  and 
presently  saw  him  reappear  round  the  angle  of  the  house 
and  join  Craven  on  the  terrace.  They  stood  talking  for 
a  few  minutes  and  then  together  descended  the  long  flight 


210  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

of  stone  steps  to  the  rose  garden,  from  which,  by  a  short 
cut  through  a  little  copse,  could  be  reached  the  path  that 
crossing  the  park  led  to  the  Hermitage.  It  was  the  habit 
of  Peters  when  he  had  been  dining  at  the  big  house  to 
walk  home  thus  and,  as  to-night,  Craven  almost  always 
accompanied  him. 

Gillian  had  long  known  her  husband's  propensity  for 
night  rambling  and  she  knew  it  might  be  houis  before 
he  returned.  Was  he  angry  with  her  still  that  he  had 
omitted  the  punctilious  good-night  he  had  never  before 
forgotten?  Her  lips  quivered  like  a  disappointed  child's 
as  she  turned  back  slowly  into  the  room.  But  as  she 
passed  through  the  hall  and  climbed  the  long  stairs  she 
knew  in  her  heart  that  she  had  misjudged  him.  He  was 
not  capable  of  petty  retaliation.  He  had  only  forgotten 
—  why  indeed  should  he  remember?  It  was  a  small 
matter  to  him,  he  could  not  know  what  it  meant  to  her. 
In  her  bedroom  she  dismissed  her  maid  and  went  to  an 
open  window.  She  was  very  tired,  but  restless,  and  dis- 
inclined for  bed.  Dropping  down  on  the  low  seat  she 
stared  out  over  the  moonlit  landscape.  The  repentant 
Mouston,  abject  at  her  continued  neglect,  crawled  from 
his  basket  and  crept  tentatively  to  her,  and  as  absently 
her  hand  went  out  to  him  gained  courage  and  climbed  up 
beside  her.  Inch  by  inch  he  sidled  nearer,  and  unre- 
pulsed  grew  bolder  until  he  finally  subsided  with  his  head 
across  her  knees,  whining  his  satisfaction.  Mechanically 
she  caressed  him  until  his  shivering  starting  body  lay 
quiet  under  her  soothing  touch.  The  night  was  close  and 
very  silent.  No  breath  of  wind  came  to  stir  the  heavily 
leafed  trees,  no  sound  broke  the  stillness.  She  listened 
vainly  for  the  cry  of  an  owl,  for  the  sharp  alarm  note  of 
a  pheasant  to  pierce  the  brooding  hush  that  seemed  to 
have  fallen  even  over  nature.  A  coppery  moon  hung  like 
a  ball  of  fire  in  the  sky.  At  the  far  end  of  the  terrace  a 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  211 

group  of  tall  trees  cast  inky  black  shadows  across  the 
short  smooth  lawn  and  the  white  tracery  of  the  stone 
balustrade.  The  faint  scent  of  jasmine  drifted  in 
through  the  open  window  and  she  leaned  forward  eagerly 
to  catch  the  sweet  intermittent  perfume  that  brought 
back  memories  of  the  peaceful  courtyard  of  the  convent 
school.  A  night  of  intense  beauty,  mysterious,  disturb- 
ing, called  her  compellingly.  The  restlessness  that  had 
assailed  her  grew  suddenly  intolerable,  and  she  glanced 
back  into  the  spacious  room  with  a  feeling  of  suffocation. 

The  four  walls  seemed  closing  in  about  her.  She  knew 
that  the  big  white  bed  would  bring  no  rest,  that  she 
would  toss  in  feverish  misery  until  the  morning,  and  she 
turned  with  dread  from  the  thought  of  the  long  weary 
hours.  Night  after  night  she  lay  awake  in  loneliness  and 
longing  until  exhaustion  brought  fitful  sleep  that,  dream- 
haunted,  gave  no  refreshment. 

Sleep  was  impossible  —  the  room  that  witnessed  her 
nightly  vigil  a  prison  house  of  dark  sad  thoughts.  Her 
head  throbbed  with  the  heat;  she  craved  the  space,  the 
freshness  of  the  moonlit  garden. 

Rousing  the  slumbering  dog  she  went  out  on  to  the 
gallery  and  down  the  staircase  she  had  climbed  so 
wearily  an  hour  before.  By  the  solitary  light  still  burn- 
ing in  the  hall  she  knew  that  Craven  had  not  yet  returned. 
Through  the  darkness  of  the  drawing  room  she  groped 
her  way  until  her  otstretched  hands  touched  shutters. 
Slipping  the  bar  softly  and  unlatching  the  window  she 
passed  out.  For  a  moment  she  stood  still,  breathing 
deeply,  drinking  in  the  beauty  of  the  scene,  exhilarated 
with  the  sudden  feeling  of  freedom  that  came  to  her. 
The  silent  garden,  beautiful  always  but  more  beautiful 
still  in  the  mystery  of  the  night,  appealed  to  her  as 
never  before.  It  was  the  same,  yet  wonderfully,  curiously 
unlike,  A  glamour  hung  over  it,  a  certain  settled  peace 


«12  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

that  soothed  the  tumult  of  her  mind  and  calmed 
her  nerves.  Surrendering  to  the  charm  of  its  almost 
unearthly  loveliness  she  slowly  paced  the  long  length 
of  the  terrace,  the  wondering  Mouston  pressing  close 
beside  her. 

Then  when  her  tired  limbs  could  go  no  further  she 
halted  by  the  steps  and  leant  her  arms  on  the  coping  of 
the  balustrade.  Cupping  her  chin  in  her  hands  she 
looked  down  at  the  rose  garden  beneath  her  and  smiled 
at  its  quaint  formality.  Running  parallel  with  the  ter- 
race on  the  one  side  the  three  remaining  sides  were 
enclosed  by  a  high  yew  hedge  through  which  a  door,  facing 
the  terrace  steps,  led  to  a  path  that  gave  access  to  the 
copse  that  was  Peters'  short  cut.  The  shadow  of  the 
high  dense  yew  stretched  far  across  the  garden  and  she 
gazed  dreamily  into  its  dusky  depths,  conjuring  up  the 
past,  peopling  the  solitude  about  her  with  forgotten 
ghosts  who  in  the  silks  and  satins  of  a  bygone  age  had 
walked  those  same  flagged  paths  and  talked  and 
laughed  and  wept  among  the  roses.  Poor  lonely  ghosts 
—  were  they  lonelier  than  she? 

The  silence  broke  at  last.  Far  off  from  the  trees  in  the 
park  an  owl  called  softly  to  its  mate  and  the  swift  answer- 
ing note  seemed  to  mock  her  desolation.  Her  whole 
being  shuddered  into  one  great  soundless  cry  of  utter 
longing :  "  Barry !  Oh,  Barry,  Barry ! " 

And  as  if  in  answer  to  her  prayer  she  heard  a  sound 
that  sent  the  quick  blood  leaping  to  her  heart. 

In  the  deep  shadow  of  the  yew  hedge  the  door  that 
had  opened  shut  with  a  sudden  clang.  Her  hands  crept 
to  her  breast  as  she  strained  her  eyes  into  the  darkness. 
Then  the  echo  of  a  firm  tread,  and  Craven's  tall  figure 
emerged  from  the  surrounding  gloom.  With  fluttering 
breath  she  watched  him  slowly  cross  the  bright  strip  of 
moonlight  lying  athwart  the  rose  garden  and  mount  the 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  213 

steps.  Only  when  he  reached  the  terrace  did  he  seem 
aware  of  her  presence,  and  joined  her  with  an  exclama- 
tion of  surprise,  "You  —  Gillian?" 

"I  couldn't  sleep  —  it  was  so  hot  —  the  garden  tempted 
me,"  she  faltered,  in  sudden  fear  lest  he  might  think  she 
spied  on  him.  But  the  fascination  of  the  night  was  to 
Craven  too  natural  to  evoke  comment.  He  lit  a 
cigarette  and  smoked  in  a  silence  she  did  not  know  how 
to  break,  and  a  cold  wave  of  chill  foreboding  passed  over 
her  as  she  waited  with  nervous  constraint  for  him  to 
speak.  He  turned  to  her  at  last  with  a  certain  delibera- 
tion and  spoke  with  blunt  directness. 

"I  have  been  asked  to  lead  an  expedition  in  Central 
Africa.  It  is  partly  a  hunting  trip,  partly  a  scientific 
mission.  They  have  approached  me  because  I  know  the 
country,  and  because  I  am  interested  in  tropical  diseases 
and  am  willing  to  defray  a  proportion  of  the  expense 
which  will  be  necessarily  heavy  —  I  should  gladly  have 
done  so  in  any  case  whether  I  went  with  the  party  or 
not.  The  question  of  leading  the  expedition  I  deferred 
as  long  as  I  could  for  obvious  reasons  —  I  had  not  only 
myself  to  consider.  But  I  have  been  pressed  to  give  a 
definite  answer  and  have  agreed  to  go.  There  are  plenty 
of  other  men  who  would  do  the  job  better  than  myself 
but,  as  I  said,  I  happen  to  know  the  locality  and  speak 
several  of  the  dialects,  so  my  going  may  make  things 
easier  for  them.  But  that  is  not  what  has  weighed  with 
me  most,  it  is  you.  Do  you  think  I  don't  know  how 
completely  I  have  failed  you  —  how  difficult  your  life  is? 
I  do  know.  And  because  I  know  I  am  going.  For  I  see 
no  other  way  of  making  your  life  even  bearable  for  you. 
It  has  become  impossible  for  us  to  go  on  as  we  are  —  and 
the  fault  is  mine,  only  mine.  You  have  been  an  angel 
of  goodness  and  patience,  you  have  done  all  that  was 
humanly  possible  for  any  woman  to  do,  but  circum-. 


214  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

stances  were  against  us.  I  had  no  right  to  ask  you  to 
make  such  a  marriage.  I  cannot  undo  it.  I  cannot 
give  you  your  freedom,  but  I  can  by  my  absence  make 
your  life  easier  than  it  has  been.  I  have  arranged  every- 
thing with  the  lawyers  in  London  and  with  Peters,  here 
to-night.  If  I  do  not  return,  for  there  are  of  course 
risks,  everything  is  left  in  your  control  —  it  is  the  only 
satisfaction  in  my  power.  If  I  do  return  —  God  give  me 
grace  to  be  kinder  to  you  than  I  have  been  in  the  past. " 
The  blow  she  had  been  waiting  for  had  fallen  at  last, 
in  fulfilment  of  her  premonition.  In  her  heart  she  had 
always  known  it  would  come,  but  its  suddenness 
paralysed.  She  had  nothing  to  say.  Silently  she  stood 
beside  him,  her  hands  tight-locked,  numbed  with  a 
desperate  fear.  He  would  go  —  and  he  would  never 
return.  It  hammered  in  her  brain,  making  her  want  to 
shriek.  She  felt  to  the  full  her  own  powerlessness,  noth- 
ing she  could  say  would  turn  him  from  his  purpose.  It 
was  the  end  she  had  always  foreseen,  the  end  of  all  her 
dreams,  the  end  of  everything  but  sorrow  and  pain  and 
loneliness  unspeakable.  And  for  him  —  danger  and  pos- 
sibly death.  He  had  admitted  risk,  he  had  set  his  house 
in  order.  From  Craven  it  meant  much.  She  had 
learned  his  complete  disregard  for  danger  from  the  men 
who  had  stayed  with  them  in  Scotland;  his  recklessness 
in  the  hunting  field,  which  was  a  by-word  in  the  county, 
was  already  known  to  her.  He  set  no  value  on  his  own 
life  —  what  reason  was  there  to  suppose  that,  in  the  mys- 
terious land  of  sudden  and  terrible  death,  he  would  take 
even  ordinary  precautions?  Was  he  going  with  a  pre- 
conceived determination  to  end  a  life  that  had  become 
unbearable?  In  agony  that  seemed  to  rive  her  heart 
she  closed  her  eyes  lest  he  might  see  in  them  the  anguish 
she  knew  was  there.  How  long  a  time  was  left  to  her 
before  the  parting  that  would  leave  her  desolate? 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  215 

"When  do  you  go?"  The  question  burst  from  her, 
and  Craven  glanced  at  her  keenly,  trying  to  read  the 
colourless  face  that  was  like  a  still  white  mask.  He 
fancied  he  had  caught  a  tremor  in  her  voice,  then  he 
called  himself  a  fool  as  he  noted  the  composure  that 
seemed  to  argue  indifference.  Her  calmness  stung  while 
it  strengthened  him.  Why  should  she  care,  he  asked 
himself  bitterly.  His  going  could  mean  to  her  only 
relief.  And  disappointment  made  his  own  voice  ring 
cold  and  distant.  "Within  the  next  few  weeks.  The 
exact  date  is  not  yet  fixed,"  he  said  evasively.  Again 
she  was  silent  while  he  wondered  what  were  her  thoughts. 
Suddenly  she  turned  to  him,  words  pouring  out  in  stam- 
mering haste,  "  WThile  you  are  away  — may  I  go  to 
France  —  to  Paris  —  to  work?  This  life  of  idleness  is  kill- 
ing me!" 

He  looked  at  her  in  amazement,  startled  at  her 
passionate  utterance,  dismayed  at  a  suggestion  he  had 
never  contemplated.  To  think  of  her  at  the  Towers,  in 
the  position  he  would  have  her  fill,  watched  over  by 
Peters,  was  fhe  only  comfort  he  could  take  away  with 
him.  For  a  second  he  meditated  a  refusal  that  seemed 
within  his  right,  arbitrary  though  it  might  be.  But  the 
promise  he  had  made  to  leave  her  free  stayed  him.  He 
could  not  break  that  promise  now.  "As  you  please," 
he  said,  with  forced  unconcern,  "you  are  your  own 
mistress.  You  can  do  whatever  you  wish."  And  with 
a  slight  shrug  he  turned  toward  the  house.  She  walked 
beside  him  in  a  tumult  of  emotion.  He  would  now  never 
-know  the  love  she  bore  him,  the  aching  passion  that 
throbbed  like  a  living  thing  within  her.  She  could  not 
speak,  the  gulf  between  them  was  too  wide  to  bridge, 
and  he  would  leave  her,  thinking  her  indifferent,  callous! 
Tears  blinded  her  as  she  stumbled  through  the 'dark 
drawing  room. 


816  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

In  the  dimly  lit  hall,  standing  at  the  foot  of  the  stair- 
case with  his  hand  clenched  on  the  oaken  rail,  Craven 
watched  with  tortured  eyes  the  slender  drooping  figure 
move  slowly  upward,  battling  with  himself,  praying  for 
strength  to  let  her  go  —  for  he  knew  that  if  she  even 
turned  her  head  his  self-control  would  shatter.  It  was 
weakening  now  and  the  sweat  broke  out  hi  heavy  drops 
on  his  forehead  as  he  strove  to  crush  an  insidious  inward 
voice  that  bade  him  forget  the  past  and  take  what  was 
his.  "Only  one  life,"  it  seemed  to  shout  in  mocking 
derision,  "live  while  you  can,  take  what  you  can!  What 
is  done,  is  done;  only  the  present  matters.  Of  what  use 
is  regret,  xof  what  use  an  abstinence  that  mortifies  yet 
feeds  desire?  Fool,  fool  to  set  aside  the  chance  of 
happiness ! " 

With  a  deep  breath  that  was  almost  a  groan  he  sprang 
forward.  Then,  in  deadly  fear,  he  checked  himself,  and 
wrenching  his  eyes  away  from  the  woman  he  craved  fled 
out  into  the  night. 


CHAPTER    VIII 

IN  a  little  tent  pitched  in  the  midst  of  an  Arab  camp 
in  the  extreme  south  of  Southern  Algeria  Craven 
sat  writing.  A  day  of  intense  heat  had  been  succeeded 
by  a  night  airless  and  suffocating,  and  he  was  wet  with 
perspiration  that  dripped  from  his  forehead  and  formed 
in  sticky  pools  under  his  hand,  making  writing  laborious 
and  difficult,  impossible  indeed  except  for  the  sheet  of 
blotting  paper  on  which  his  fingers  rested.  His  thin  silk 
shirt,  widely  open  at  the  throat,  the  sleeves  rolled  up 
above  his  elbows,  clung  limply  to  his  broad  shoulders. 
A  multitude  of  tiny  flies  attracted  by  the  light  circled 
round  the  lamp  eddying  in  the  heat  of  the  flame,  immo- 
lating themselves,  and  falling  thickly  on  the  closely 
written  sheets  of  paper  that  strewed  the  camp  table, 
smeared  the  still  wet  ink  and  clogged  his  pen.  He  swept 
them  away  impatiently  from  time  to  tune.  Squatting 
on  his  heels  in  a  corner,  his  inscrutable  yellow  face  damp 
and  glistening,  Yoshio  was  cleaning  a  revolver  with  his 
usual  thoroughness  and  precision.  A  ragged  square  of 
canvas  beside  him  held  the  implements  necessary  to  his 
Work,  set  out  in  methodical  order,  and  as  he  cleaned  and 
oiled  and  polished  assiduously  without  raising  his  eyes 
his  deft  fingers  selected  unerringly  the  tool  he  required. 
The  weapon  appeared  already  speckless,  but  for  some 
time  he  continued  to  rub  vigorously,  handling  it  with 
almost  affectionate  care  as  if  loth  to  put  it  down;  at 
last  with  a  grunt  of  demur  he  reluctantly  laid  aside  the 
cloth  he  was  using  and  wrapping  the  revolver  in  a  silk 

217 


218  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

handkerchief  slid  it  slowly  into  a  leathern  holster  which 
his  care  had  kept  soft  and  pliable.    Placing  it  noiselessly 
on  the  ground  before  him  he  turned  his  oblique  gaze  on 
Craven  and  watched  him  for  a  moment  or  two  intently. 
Assured  at  length  that  his  master  was  too  absorbed  in 
his  own  task  to  notice   the  doings  of  his   servant  he 
reached  his  hand  behind  him  and  produced  a  second 
revolver,  which  he  began  to  clean  more  hurriedly,  more 
superficially  than  the  first,  keeping  the  while  a  wary  eye 
on  the  stooping  figure  at  the  table.    When  that  too  was 
finished  to  his  satisfaction  and  restored  to  his  hip  pocket, 
a    flicker   of    almost    childlike    amusement    crossed    his 
usually  immobile  features  and  he  started  operations  with 
an  air  of  fine  unconsciousness  upon  one  of  a  couple  of 
rifles  that  stood  propped  against  the  tent  wall  near  him. 
Two  years  of  hardships  and  danger  had  left  no   mark 
upon   him,   the   deadly   climate   of  the   region   through 
which  he  had  passed   had   not   impaired   his  powerful 
physique,   and  disease  that  had  ravaged  the  scientific 
mission  had  left  him,  like  Craven,  unscathed.    With  no 
care  beyond  his  master's  comfort,  indifferent  to  fatigue 
and  perils,  the  months  spent  in  Central  Africa  had  been 
far  more  to  his  taste  than  the  dull  monotony  of  the  life 
at  Craven  Towers.     But  with  his  face  turned,  though 
indirectly,  toward  home  —  the  home  of  his  adoption — 
Yoshio  was  still  cheerful.    For  him  life  held  only  one 
incentive  —  the  man  who  had  years  before  saved  his  life 
in  California.    Where  Craven  was  Yoshio  was  content. 
Outside,  the  Arab  camp  was  in  an  uproar.    Groups  of 
tribesmen    passed    the     tent     continually,     conversing 
eagerly,  their  raucous  voices  rising  shrill,  shouting,  argu- 
ing, in  noisy  excitement.    The  neighing  of  horses  came 
from   near   by   and   once   a   screaming   stallion   backed 
heavily  against  the  canvas  wall  where  Yoshio  was  sitting, 
rousing  the  phlegmatic  Japanese  to  an  unwonted  ejacu- 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  219 

lation  of  wrath  as  he  ducked  and  grabbed  into  safety 
the  remaining  rifle  before  the  animal  was  hauled  clear 
with  a  wealth  of  detailed  Arabic  expletives,  and  he 
grinned  broadly  when  an  authoritative  voice  broke  into 
the  Arabs'  clamour  and  a  subsequent  sudden  silence  fell 
in  the  vicinity  of  the  stranger's  tent. 

Regardless  of  the  disturbance  resounding  from  all 
quarters  of  the  camp  Craven  wrote  on  steadily  for  some 
time  longer.  Then  with  a  short  sigh  he  shuffled  the 
scattered  sheets  together,  brushed  clear  the  clinging 
accumulation  of  scorched  wings  and  tiny  shrivelled 
bodies,  and  without  re-reading  the  closely  written  pages 
stuffed  them  into  an  envelope,  and  having  closed  and 
directed  it,  leaned  back  with  an  exclamation  of  relief. 

The  letter  to  Peters  was  finished  but  there  remained 
still  the  more  difficult  letter  he  had  yet  to  address  to  his 
wife  —  a  letter  he  dreaded  and  yet  longed  to  write.  A 
letter  which,  reaching  her  after  the  death  he  confidently 
expected  and  earnestly  prayed  for,  would  reveal  to  her 
fully  the  secret  of  his  past  and  the  passion  that  had 
driven  him,  unworthy,  from  her.  For  never  during  the 
two  years  of  adventure  and  peril  had  death  seemed  more 
imminent  than  now,  and  before  he  died  he  would  give 
himself  this  one  satisfaction  —  he  would  break  the  silence 
of  years  that  had  eaten  like  a  canker  into  his  soul.  At 
last  she  would  know  all  he  had  never  dared  to  tell  her, 
all  his  hopeless  love,  all  his  remorse  and  shame,  all  his 
passionate  desire  for  her  happiness. 

Scores  of  times  during  the  last  two  years  he  had 
attempted  to  write  such  a  letter  and  had  as  of  ten  refrained, 
but  to-night  his  need  was  imperative.  It  was  his 
last  chance.  In  the  early  hours  of  the  dawn  he 
would  ride  with  his  Arab  hosts  on  a  punitive  expedition 
from  which  he  had  no  intention  of  returning  alive. 
Death  that  he  had  courted  openly  since  leaving  England 


220  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

would  surely  be  easy  to  find  amid  the  warring  tribes 
with  whom  he  had  thrown  in  his  lot.  A  curious  smile 
lit  his  face  for  an  instant,  then  passed  abruptly  at  the 
doubt  that  shook  his  confidence.  Would  fate  again 
refuse  him  release  from  a  life  that  had  become  more  than 
ever  intolerable? 

Haunted  as  he  was  with  the  memory  of  O  Hara  San, 
tortured  with  longing  for  the  woman  he  had  made  his 
wife,  the  double  burden  had  become  too  heavy  to  bear. 
He  had  grasped  at  the  opportunity  offered  by  the  scien- 
tific mission.  The  dangerous  nature  of  the  country,  the 
fever  that  saturated  its  swamps  and  forests,  was  known 
to  him  and  he  had  gone  to  Africa  courting  a  death  that 
would  free  him  and  yet  leave  no  stain  on  the  name  borne 
by  his  wife.  And  the  death  that  would  free  him  would 
free  her  too!  The  bitter  justice  of  it  made  him  set  his 
teeth.  For  he  had  left  her  his  fortune  and  his  great 
possessions  unrestrictedly  to  deal  with  as  she  would. 
Young,  rich  and  free!  Who  would  claim  what  he  had 
surrendered?  Even  now,  after  months  of  mental  struggle, 
the  thought  was  torment. 

But  death  that  had  laid  a  heavy  toll  on  his  companions 
had  turned  away  from  him.  Disease  and  disaster  had 
dogged  the  mission  from  the  outset.  The  medical  and 
scientific  researches  had  proved  satisfactory  beyond 
expectation,  but  the  attendant  loss  of  life  had  been 
terrible,  and  himself  utterly  reckless  and  heedless  of  all 
precautions  Craven  had  watched  tragedy  after  tragedy 
with  envy  he  had  been  hardly  able  to  hide.  Immune 
from  the  sudden  and  deadly  fevers  that  had  swept  the 
camps  periodically  with  fatal  results  he  had  worked  fear- 
lessly and  untiringly  among  the  stricken  members  of 
the  mission  and  the  fast  dwindling  army  of  demoralised 
porters  who  had  succumbed  with  alarming  rapidity. 
With  the  stolid  Japanese  always  beside  him  he  had 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  221 

wrestled  entire  nights  and  days  to  save  the  expedition 
from  extermination.  And  in  the  intervals  of  nursing, 
and  shepherding  the  unwilling  carriers,  he  had  ranged 
far  and  wide  in  search  of  fresh  food  to  supply  the 
wants  of  the  camp.  The  danger  he  deliberately  sought, 
with  a  rashness  that  had  provoked  open  comment,  had 
miraculously  evaded  him.  He  had  borne  a  charmed  life. 
He  had  snatched  at  every  hazardous  enterprise,  he  had 
exposed  himself  consistently  to  risk  until  one  evening 
shortly  before  the  expedition  was  due  to  start  on  the 
return  march  to  civilization,  when  a  chance  word  spoken 
by  the  camp  fire  had  brought  home  to  him  abruptly  the 
dependence  of  the  remnant  of  the  mission  on  him  to 
bring  them  to  the  coast  in  safety.  By  some  strange 
dealing  of  fate  it  had  been  among  the  non-scientific  mem- 
bers of  the  expedition  that  mortality  had  ranged  highest; 
the  big  game  hunters,  though  hardier  and  physically 
better  equipped  than  the  students  of  the  party  for  hard- 
ship and  endurance  had,  with  the  exception  of  Craven 
himself,  been  wiped  out  to  a  man.  It  had  been  an  unpre- 
meditated remark  uttered  in  all  good  faith  with  no  ulterior 
motive  by  a  shuddering  fever-stricken  scientist  writing 
up  his  notes  and  diary  by  the  light  of  the  fire  with  tremb- 
ling fingers  that  could  scarcely  hold  the  fountain  pen 
that  moved  laboriously  driven  by  an  indomitable  will. 
A  grim  jest,  horrible  in  its  significance,  had  followed 
the  startling  utterance  and  Craven  had  looked  with 
perplexity  at  the  shivering  figure  with  its  drawn  yellow 
face  from  which  a  pair  of  glittering  eyes  burned  with 
an  almost  uncanny  brilliance  until  the  meaning  of  the 
man's  words  slowly  penetrated.  But  the  true  impor- 
tance of  the  suggestion  once  realised  had  aroused  in  him 
a  full  understanding  of  the  duty  he  owed  to  the  men  he 
had  undertaken  to  lead.  Of  those  who  could  have  con- 
voyed the  expedition  on  its  homeward  march  only  he 


222  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

remained.  Without  him  the  survivors  of  the  once  large 
party  might  eventually  reach  safety  but  it  was  made 
clear  to  him  that  night  how  completely  his  com- 
panions relied  on  him  for  a  quick  return  and  for  the 
management  of  the  train  of  porters  whose  frequent 
mutinies  only  Craven  seemed  able  to  quell.  He  had  sat 
far  into  the  night,  staring  gloomily  into  the  blazing  fire, 
smoking  pipe  after  pipe,  listening  to  the  multifarious 
noises  of  the  forest  —  the  sudden  distant  crash  of  falb'ng 
trees,  the  incessant  hum  of  insect  life,  the  long-drawn 
howl  of  beasts  of  prey  hovering  on  the  outskirts  of  the 
camp,  the  soft  whoo-whoo  of  an  owl  whose  cry  brought 
vividly  to  his  mind  the  cool  fragrance  of  the  garden  at 
Craven  Towers  and  the  nearer  more  ominous  sounds  of 
muffled  agony  that  came  from  a  tent  close  beside  him 
where  yet  another  victim  of  science  was  gasping  his  life 
away. 

Hour  after  hour  he  sat  thinking.  There  was  no  get- 
ting away  from  it  —  it  was  only  despicable  that  he  had 
not  himself  recognised  it  earlier.  The  narrow  path  of 
duty  lay  before  him  from  which  he  might  not  turn  aside 
to  ease  the  burden  of  a  private  grief.  He  was  bound  to 
the  men  who  trusted  him.  Honour  demanded  that  he 
should  forego  the  project  he  had  formed  —  until  his 
obligation  had  been  discharged.  Loyalty  to  his  com- 
panions must  come  before  every  selfish  consideration. 
After  all  it  was  only  a  postponement,  he  reflected  with  a 
kind  of  grim  satisfaction.  The  residue  of  the  mission 
once  safely  conducted  to  the  coast  his  responsibility 
would  end  and  he  would  be  free  to  pursue  the  course 
that  would  liberate  the  woman  he  loved. 

In  the  chill  silence  of  the  hour  that  precedes  the  dawn 
he  had  risen  cramped  and  shivering  from  his  seat  by  the 
dying  fire  and  too  late  then  to  take  the  rest  he  had 
neglected,  had  roused  Yoshio  and  started  on  the  usuaj 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  223 

foraging  expedition  that  was  his  daily  occupation.    And 
from  that  time  he  had  been  careful  of  a  life  which, 
though   valueless   to   him,  was   invaluable  to   his   com- 
panions.   From  that  time,  too,  the  ill-luck  that  had  pur- 
sued them  ceased.    There  had  been  no  more  deaths,  no 
more  desertions  from  the  already  depleted  train  of  car- 
riers.   The  work  had  gone  forward  with  continuing  suc- 
cess and,  six  months  ago,  after  a  hazardous  march  through 
a    hostile    country,    Craven    had    led    the    remnant    of 
the  expedition  safely  to  the  coast.    He  had  waited  for 
some  weeks  at  the  African  port  after  the  mission  had 
returned  to  England,  and  then  embarking  on   a  small 
trading  steamer,  had  made  his  way  northward  to  an 
obscure  station  on  the  Moroccan  seaboard,  when  by  a 
leisurely  and  indirect  route  he  had  slowly  crossed  the 
desert  to  the  district  where  he  now  was  and  which  he 
had  reached  only  a  week  ago.     Twice  before  he  had 
visited  the  tribe  as  the  guest  of  the  Sheik  Mukair  Ibn 
Zarrarah's  younger  son,  an  officer  of  Spahis  whom  he 
had  met  in  Paris,  and  the  warm  hospitality  shown  him 
had   left   a   deep   impression.     A  sudden  unaccountable 
impulse  had  led  him  to  revisit  a  locality  where  he  had 
spent  some  of  the  happiest  months  of  his  life.    He  had 
conceived  an  intense  admiration  and  liking  for  the  stern 
old  Arab  Chief  and  his  two  utterly  dissimilar  sons;   the 
elder  a  grave  habitually  silent  man,  who  clung  to  the 
old  traditions  with  the  rigid  tenacity  of  the  orthodox 
Mohammedan,  disdainful  of  the  French  jurisdiction  under 
which  he  was  compelled  to  live,  and  occupied  solely  with 
the  affairs  of  the  tribe  and  his  beautiful  and  adored  wife 
who  reigned  alone  in  his  harem,  despite  the  fact  that  she 
had  given  him  no  child;  the  younger  in  total  contrast  to 
his    brother,    a   dashing    ultra-modern   young   Arab    as 
deeply  imbued  with  French  tendencies  as  the  conserva- 
tive  Omar   was   opposed   to   them.    The   wealthy    and 


224  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

powerful  old  Sheik,  whose  friendship  had  been  assidu- 
ously sought  by  the  French  Administration  to  ensure  the 
co-operation  of  a  tribe  that  with  its  far  reaching  influence 
might  have  proved  a  dangerous  element  in  an  unsettled 
district,  shared  in  his  inmost  heart  the  sentiments  of  his 
heir,  but  with  a  larger  and  more  discriminating  wisdom 
saw  the  desirability  of  associating  at  least  one  of  his 
family  with  the  Government  he  was  obliged,  though 
grudgingly  and  half  contemptuously,  to  acknowledge. 
He  had  hovered  long  between  prejudice  and  policy 
before  he  reluctantly  gave  his  consent  for  Said  to  be  placed 
on  the  roll  of  the  regiment  of  Spahis.  And  the  unusual 
love  existing  between  the  two  brothers  had  survived  a 
test  that  might  have  proved  too  strong  for  its  continu- 
ance; Omar,  bowing  to  the  decision  of  the  autocratic  old 
Chief,  had  refrained  even  from  comment,  and  Said, 
despite  his  enthusiasm,  had  carefully  avoided  inflaming 
his  brother's  deeply  rooted  hatred  of  the  nation  the 
younger  man  was  proud  to  serve.  His  easy-going  nature 
adapted  itself  readily  to  the  two  wholly  separate  lives  he 
lived,  and  though  secretly  preferring  the  months  spent 
with  his  regiment  he  contrived  to  extract  every  possible 
enjoyment  from  the  periods  of  leave  for  which  he  returned 
to  the  tribe  where,  laying  aside  the  picturesque  uniform 
his  afrdent  soul  rejoiced  in  and  scrupulously  suppressing 
every  indication  of  his  Francophile  inclinations  he 
resumed  with  consummate  tact  the  somewhat  invidious 
position  of  younger  son  of  the  house. 

The  meeting  of  the  young  Spahi  with  Craven  in  Paris 
had  led  to  the  discovery  of  similar  tastes  and  ultimately 
to  an  intimate  friendship.  Together  in  Algeria  they  had 
shot  panther  and  Barbary  sheep  and  eventually  Craven 
had  been  induced  to  visit  the  tribe,  where  he  had  seen 
the  true  life  of  the  desert  that  appealed  strongly  to  his 
unconventional  wandering  disposition.  The  heartinea* 


THE  SHADOW  OP  THE  EAST  225 

of  his  reception  had  been  unqualified,  even  the  taciturn 
Omar  had  unbent  to  the  representative  of  a  nation  he 
lelt  he  could  respect  with  no  loss  of  prestige.  To  Craven 
the  weeks  passed  in  the  Arab  camp  had  been  a  time  of 
uninterrupted  enjoyment  and  a  second  visit  had 
strengthened  mutual  esteem.  Situated  on  the  extreme 
fringe  of  the  Algerian  frontier,  in  the  heart  of  a  per- 
petually disturbed  country,  the  element  of  danger  pre- 
vailing in  the  district  was  to  Craven  not  the  least  of  its 
attractions.  It  had  been  a  source  of  keen  disappoint- 
ment that  during  both  his  visits  there  had  been  a  ces- 
sation of  the  intertribal  warfare  that  was  carried  on  in 
spite  of  the  Government's  endeavours  to  preserve  peace 
among  the  great  desert  families.  For  generations  the 
tribe  of  Mukair  Ibn  Zarrarah  had  been  at  feud  with 
another  powerful  tribe  which,  living  further  to  the  south 
and  virtually  beyond  the  suzerainty  of  the  nominal 
rulers  of  the  country,  harried  the  border  continually. 
But,  aware  of  the  growing  power  and  resources  of  Mukair 
Ibn  Zarrarah,  for  many  years  the  marauders  had  avoided 
collision  with  him  and  confined  their  attention  to  less 
dangerous  adversaries.  The  apparent  neglect  of  his 
hereditary  enemies  had  not,  however,  lessened  the  old 
Sheik's  precautions.  With  characteristic  oriental  dis- 
trust he  maintained  a  continual  watch  upon  them  and  a 
well  organized  system  of  espionage  kept  him  conversant 
with  all  their  movements.  Often  during  his  visits 
Craven  had  listened  to  the  stories  of  past  encounters  and 
in  the  fierce  eager  faces  around  him  he  had  read  the  deep 
longing  for  renewed  hostilities  that  animated  the  younger 
members  of  the  tribe  in  particular  and  had  wondered 
what  spark  would  eventually  set  ablaze  the  smouldering 
fires  of  hatred  and  rivalry  that  had  so  long  lain  dormant. 
And  it  had  been  really  a  subconscious  presage  of  such 
an  outbreak  that  had  brought  Him  back  to  the  camp  of 


£26  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

Mukair  Ibn  Zarrarah.  His  presentiment,  the  outcome  of 
earnest  desire,  had  been  fulfilled,  and  in  its  fulfilment 
attended  with  horrible  details  which,  had  it  not  been 
already  his  intention,  would  have  driven  him  to  beg  a 
place  in  the  ranks  of  the  punitive  force  that  was  pre- 
paring to  avenge  an  outrage  that  involved  the  honour  of 
the  tribe.  A  week  ago  he  had  arrived  to  find  the  camp 
seething  with  an  infuriated  and  passion-swayed  people 
who  bore  no  kind  of  resemblance  to  the  orderly  well- 
disciplined  tribesmen  he  had  seen  on  his  former  visits, 
and  the  daily  arrival  of  reinforcements  from  outlying  dis- 
tricts had  kept  the  tension  strained  and  swelled  the 
excitement  that  rioted  day  and  night. 

In  the  barbaric  sumptuousness  of  his  big  tent  and  with 
a  calm  dignity  that  even  tragedy  could  not  shake  the  old 
Sheik  had  received  him  alone,  for  the  unhappy  Omar 
was  hidden  in  the  desolate  solitude  of  his  ravished  harem. 
To  the  Englishman,  before  whom  he  could  speak  openly 
the  old  man  had  revealed  the  whole  terrible  story  with 
vivid  dramatic  force  and  all  the  flowery  eloquence  of 
which  he  was  master.  It  was  a  tale  of  misplaced  con- 
fidence and  faithlessness  that,  detected  and  punished 
with  oriental  severity,  had  led  to  swift  and  dastardly 
revenge.  A  headman  of  the  tribe  whom  both  the  Sheik 
and  his  elder  son  trusted  implicitly  had  proved  guilty  of 
grave  indiscretion  that  undetected  might  have  seriously 
impaired  the  prestige  of  the  ruling  house.  Deposed  from 
his  headmanship,  and  deserted  with  characteristic  vacil- 
lation by  the  adherents  on  whom  he  counted,  the  delin- 
quent had  fled  to  the  camp  of  the  rival  tribe,  with  whom 
he  had  already  been  in  secret  negotiation.  This  much 
Mukair  Ibn  Zarrarah's  spies  had  ascertained,  but 
not  in  time  to  prevent  the  catastrophe  that  followed. 
Plans  thought  to  be  known  only  to  the  Sheik  and  his  son 
had  been  disclosed  to  the  marauding  Chief,  who  had  long 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 


sought  an  opportunity  of  aiming  an  effectual  blow  at  his 
hated  rival,  and  on  one  of  Omar's  periodical  tours  of 
inspection  to  the  more  remote  encampments  of  the  large 
and  scattered  tribe,  the  little  caravan  had  been  sur- 
rounded by  an  overwhelmingly  superior  force  led  by  the 
hereditary  enemy  and  the  renegade  tribesman.  Hemmed 
in  around  the  litter  of  the  dearly  loved  young  wife,  from 
whom  he  rarely  parted,  Omar  and  his  small  bodyguard 
had  fought  desperately,  but  the  outcome  had  been 
.inevitable  from  the  first.  Outnumbered  they  had  fallen 
one  by  one  under  the  vigorous  onslaughts  of  the  attack- 
ing party  who,  victorious,  had  retired  southward  as 
quickly  as  they  had  come,  carrying  with  them  the 
beautiful  Safiya  —  the  price  of  the  traitor's  treachery. 
Covered  with  wounds  and  left  for  dead  under  a  heap  of 
dying  followers  Omar  and  two  others  had  alone  survived* 
and  with  death  in  his  heart  the  young  man  had  lived  only 
for  the  hour  when  he  might  avenge  his  honour. 
Animated  by  the  one  fierce  desire  that  sustained  him  he 
had  struggled  back  to  life  to  superintend  the  preparations 
for  retaliation  that  should  be  both  decisive  and  final. 
To  old  injuries  had  been  added  this  crowning  insult,  and 
the  tribe  of  Mukair  Ibn  Zarrarah,  roused  to  the  highest 
pitch  of  fury,  were  resolved  to  a  man  to  exterminate  or 
be  exterminated.  The  preparations  had  been  almost 
completed  when  Craven  arrived  at  the  camp,  and  tonight, 
for  the  first  time,  at  a  final  war  council  of  all  the  principal 
headmen  held  in  the  Sheik's  tent,  he  had  seen  the 
stricken  man  and  had  hardly  recognized  in  the  gaunt 
attenuated  figure  that  only  an  inflexible  will  seemed  to 
keep  upright,  the  handsome  stalwart  Arab  who  of  all  the 
tribe  had  most  nearly  approached  his  own  powerful 
physique.  The  frenzied  despair  in  the  dark  flashing  eyes 
that  met  his  struck  an  answering  chord  in  his  own  heart 
and  the  silent  handclasp  that  passed  between  them 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

.seemed  to  ratify  a  common  desire.    Here,  too,  was  a 
man  who  for  love  of  a  woman  sought  death  that  he 
might  escape  a  life  of  terrible  memory.    A  sudden  sym- 
pathy born  of  tacit  understanding  seemed  to  leap  from 
one  to  the  other,  an  affinity  of  purpose  that  drew  them 
.strangely  close  together  and  brought  to  Craven  an  odd 
'sense  of  kinship  that  dispelled  the  difference  he  had  felt 
iand  enabled  him  to  enter  reservedly  into  the  discus- 
'sions  that  followed.     After  this  meeting  he  had  gone 
back  to  his  tent  to  make  his  own  final  preparations  with 
a  feeling  almost  of  exhilaration.    To  Yoshio,  more  than 
usually  stolid,  he  had  given  all  necessary  instructions  for 
the  conveyance  of  his  belongings  to  England. 

Remained  only  the  letter  to  his  wife  —  a  letter  that 

seemed  curiously  hard  to  begin.     Pushing  the  writing 

materials  from  him  he  leant  back  further  in  his  chair, 

and  searching  in  his  pockets  found  and  filled  a  pipe  with 

slow    almost    meticulous   deliberation.     Another    search 

failed  to  produce  the  match  he  required,  and  rising  with 

a  prolonged  stretch  he  bent  over  the  table  and  lit  his 

pipe  at  the  lamp.    Crossing  the  tent  he  stood  for  a  few 

moments  in  the  doorway,  but  movements  did  not  seem  to 

produce   inspiration,    and   with   an   impatient   shrug   he 

returned  to  his  seat  and  sat  staring  gloomily  at  the  blank 

sheet  of  paper  before  him.    The  flaring  light  of  the  lamp 

illuminated  his  deeply  tanned  face  and  lean  muscular 

figure.    In  perfect  physical  condition  and  bronzed  with 

the  African  sun,  he  looked  younger  than  when  he  had 

left  England.    At  that  moment  death  and  Barry  Craven 

seemed  very  widely  separated  —  and  yet  in  a  few  hours, 

he  reflected  with  a  curiosity  that  was  oddly  impersonal, 

the  vultures  might  be  congregating  round  the  body  that 

was    now    so    strong    and  virile.     "Handsome      Barry 

Craven. "   He  had  heard  a  woman  say  it  in  Lagos  with  a 

feeling  of  contemptuous   amusement  —  a  cynical  smile 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  229 

crossed  his  face  as  the  remark  recurred  to  him  and  he 
pictured  the  loathing  that  would  succeed  admiration  in 
the  same  woman's  eyes  if  she  could  see  what  would 
remain  of  him  after  the  scavengers  of  the  desert  had  done 
their  work.  The  thought  gave  him  personally  no  feeling 
of  disgust.  He  had  lived  always  too  near  to  Nature  to 
shrink  from  contemplation  of  her  merciless  laws. 

He  filled  another  pipe  and  strove  to  collect  his  wander- 
ing thoughts,  but  the  power  of  definite  expression  seemed 
beyond  him  as  there  rose  in  him  with  almost  overwhelm- 
ing force  the  terrible  longing  that  never  left  him  —  the 
craving  to  see  her,  to  hear  her  voice.  Of  his  own  free 
will  he  was  putting  away  all  that  life  could  mean  or  hold 
for  him,  and  in  the  flood  of  natural  reaction  that  set  in 
he  called  himself  a  fool  and  revolted  at  his  self-imposed 
sentence.  The  old  struggle  recommenced,  the  old  temp- 
tation gripped  him  in  all  its  bitterness,  and  never  so 
bitterly  as  to-night.  In  the  revulsion  of  feeling  that 
beset  him  it  was  not  death  he  shrank  from  but  the  thought 
of  eternity  —  alone.  Neither  in  this  world  nor  in  the  life 
everlasting  would  she  be  his,  and  in  an  agony  of  longing 
his  soul  cried  out  in  anguished  loneliness.  The  yearning 
for  her  grew  intolerable,  a  burning  physical  ache  that 
was  torture;  but  stronger  far  rose  the  finer  nobler  desire 
for  the  perfect  spiritual  companionship  that  he  would 
never  know.  By  his  own  act  it  would  be  denied  him. 
By  his  own  act  he  had  made  this  hell  in  which  he  lived, 
of  his  own  making  would  be  the  hell  of  the  hereafter. 
Always  he  had  recognised  the  justice  of  it,  he  did  not 
attempt  to  deny  the  justice  of  it  now.  But  if  it  had 
been  otherwise  —  if  he  had  been  free  to  woo  her,  free  to 
win  her  to  his  arms!  It  was  not  the  least  of  his  punish- 
ment that,  deep  down  in  his  heart,  he  had  the  firm  con- 
viction that  despite  her  assertions  to  the  contrary,  love 
was  lying  dormant  in  her.  And  that  love  might  have 


£30  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

been  his,  would  have  been  his,  for  the  strength  and 
tenderness  of  his  own  passion  would  have  compelled  it. 
She  must  have  turned  to  him  at  last  and  in  his  love  found 
happiness.  And  to  him  her  love  would  have  been  the 
crown  of  life  —  a  life  of  exquisite  joy  and  beauty,  a  union 
of  perfect  and  undivided  sympathy.  Together  they 
might  have  made  the  Towers  a  paradise  on  earth;  together 
they  might  have  broken  the  curse  of  Craven;  together 
they  might  have  brought  happiness  into  the  lives  of 
many.  And  in  the  dream  of  what  might  have  been  there 
came  to  him  for  the  first  time  the  longing  for  parent- 
hood, the  desire  for  a  child  born  of  the  woman  he  adored, 
a  child  who  joining  in  his  tiny  personality  the  essentials 
of  each  would  be  a  tangible  proof  of  their  mutual  love, 
a  child  who  would  perpetuate  the  race  he  sprang  from. 
Craven's  breath  came  fast  with  a  new  and  tremendous 
emotion.  Then  with  terrible  suddenness  came  a  lightning 
flash  of  recollection,  a  stabbing  remembrance  that 
laid  his  dream  in  pieces  at  his  feet.  He  heard  again 
the  low  soft  sobbing  voice,  "Are  you  not  glad?"  He 
saw  again  O  Hara  San's  pleading  tear-filled  eyes,  felt 
again  her  slender  sorrow-shaken  body  trembling  in 
his  arms,  and  he  bowed  his  head  on  his  hands  in  shudder- 
ing horror.  .  .  . 

Numbed  with  the  pain  of  memory  and  self-loathing  he 
was  unaware  of  the  renewal  of  noisy  demonstration  in  the 
camp  that  to  Yoshio's  attentive  and  interested  ears 
pointed  to  the  arrival  of  yet  another  adherent  of  Mukair 
Ibn  Zarrarah,  an  adherent  of  some  special  standing, 
judging  from  the  warmth  of  his  reception.  Moved  by 
curiosity  the  Jap  rose  noiselessly  and  passing  unnoticed 
by  his  master  vanished  silently  into  the  night. 

Some  little  while  later  the  sound  of  a  clear  tenor  voice 
calling  to  him  loudly  by  name  sent  Craven  stumbling  to 
his  feet.  He  turned  quickly  with  outstretched  hands  to 


231 

meet  the  tall  young  Arab,  who  burst  unceremoniously 
into  the  tent  and  flung  himself  upon  him  in  boisterous 
greeting.  Gripped  by  a  pair  of  muscular  arms  Craven 
submitted  with  an  Englishman's  diffidence  to  the  fervid 
oriental  embrace  that  was  succeeded  to  his  greater  liking 
by  a  hearty  and  prolonged  English  handshake  and  a 
storm  of  welcoming  excited  and  almost  incoherent  speech. 
"C'est  bien  toi,  mon  vieux!  You  are  more  welcome 
than  you  have  ever  been  —  though  I  could  wish  you  a 
thousand  miles  away,  mon  ami,  but  of  that,  more,  later. 
Dame,  but  I  have  ridden!  As  though  the  hosts  of  Eblis 
were  behind  me.  I  was  on  leave  when  the  messenger 
came  for  me  —  he  seems  to  have  been  peremptory  in 
his  demands,  that  same  Selim.  Telegrams  despatched 
to  every  likely  place  —  one  caught  me  fortunately  at 
Marseilles.  Yes,  I  had  been  in  Paris.  I  hastened  to 
headquarters  and  asked  for  long  and  indefinite  leave  on 
urgent  private  affairs,  all  the  lies  I  thought  mon  colonel 
would  swallow,  but  no  word  of  war,  bien  entendu!  Praise 
be  to  Allah  they  put  no  obstacle  in  my  way  and  I  left 
at  once.  Since  then  I  have  ridden  almost  without  stop- 
ping, night  and  day.  Two  horses  I  have  killed,  the  last 
lies  dead  of  a  broken  heart  before  my  father's  tent  — 
you  remember  her?  —  my  little  Mimi,  a  chestnut  with  a 
white  star  on  her  forehead,  dear  to  me  as  the  core  of  my 
heart.  For  none  but  Omar  would  I  have  driven  so,  for 
I  loved  her,  look  you,  mon  ami,  as  I  could  never  love  a 
woman.  A  woman!  Bah!  No  woman  in  the  world 
was  worth  a  toss  of  my  Mimi's  head.  And  I  killed  her, 
Craven.  Killed  her  who  loved  and  trusted  me,  who 
never  failed  me.  My  little  Mimi!  For  the  love  of  Allah 
give  me  a  whisky."  And  laughing  and  crying  together 
he  collapsed  with  a  groan  on  to  Craven's  bed  but  sat  up 
again  immediately  to  gulp  down  the  prohibited  drink 
that  was  almost  the  last  in  a  nearly  depleted  flask. 


832  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

"The  Prophet  never  tasted  whisky  or  he  would  not 
have  forbidden  it  to  the  true  believer,"  he  said  with  a 
boyish  grin,  as  he  handed  back  the  empty  cup. 

"Which  you  are  not,"  commented  Craven  with  a  faint 
smile.  "  In  the  sense  you  mean,  no,"  replied  Said, 
swinging  his  heels  to  the  ground  and  searching  in  the 
folds  of  his  burnous  for  a  cigarette,  which  he  lit  and 
smoked  for  a  few  minutes  thoughtfully.  Then  with  all 
trace  of  his  former  excitement  gone  he  began  to  discuss 
soberly  the  exigency  of  the  moment,  revealing  a  sound 
judgment  and  levelness  of  mind  that  appeared  incom- 
patible with  his  seemingly  careless  and  easy-going  dis- 
position. It  was  a  deeper  studiously  hidden  side  of  his 
character  that  Craven  had  guessed  very  early  hi  then- 
acquaintance. 

He  talked  now  with  unconcealed  seriousness  of  the 
gravity  of  the  situation.  In  the  short  time  he  had  been 
with  his  father  before  seeking  his  friend  he  had  mastered 
the  particulars  of  the  projected  expedition  and,  with  his 
European  knowledge,  had  suggested  and  even  —  with  a 
force  of  personality  he  had  never  before  displayed  in  the 
old  Sheik's  presence  —  insisted  on  certain  alterations 
which  he  detailed  now  for  Craven's  benefit,  who  con- 
curred heartily,  for  they  were  identical  with  suggestions 
put  forward  by  himself  which  had  been  rejected  as  im- 
possible innovations  by  the  conservative  headmen,  and 
conscious  of  his  position  as  guest  he  had  not  pressed 
them.  Then  with  a  sudden  change  of  tone  the  young 
Arab  turned  to  Craven  in  frowning  inquiry. 

"But  you,  mon  cher,  what  are  you  doing  in  this 
affair?  It  was  that  I  meant  when  I  said  I  wished  you  a 
thousand  miles  away.  You  are  my  friend,  the  friend  of 
all  of  us,  but  friendship  does  not  demand  that  you  ride 
with  us  to-night.  That  you  would  offer  —  yes  —  it  was 
only  to  be  expected.  But  that  we  should  accept  your 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  233 

offer  —  no!  a  hundred  times  no!  you  are  an  English- 
man, a  big  man  in  your  own  country,  what  have  you  to 
do  with  the  tribal  warfare  of  minor  Arab  Chiefs  —  voyez 
vous,  I  have  my  moments  of  modesty!  If  anything 
should  happen  —  as  happen  it  very  likely  will  —  what  will 
your  paternal  British  Government  say?  It  will  only  add 
to  my  father's  difficulties  with  our  own  over-lords.'* 
There  was  a  laugh  in  his  eyes  though  his  voice  was  serious. 
Craven  brushed  his  objection  aside  with  an  indifferent 
hand. 

"The  British  Government  will  not  distress  itself  about 
me,"  he  said  dryly.  "  I  am  not  of  sufficient  impor- 
tance. " 

For  a  few  moments  the  Arab  sat  silent,  smoking 
rapidly,  then  he  raised  his  dark  eyes  tentatively  to 
Craven's  face. 

"In  Paris  they  told  me  you  were  married,"  he  said 
slowly,  and  the  remark  was  in  itself  ample  indication  of 
his  European  tendencies. 

Craven  turned  away  with  an  abrupt  movement  and 
bent  over  the  lamp  to  light  his  pipe.  "They  told  you 
the  truth,"  he  said,  with  a  certain  reluctance,  his  face 
hidden  by  a  cloud  of  smoke.  "Pourtant,  I  ride  with 
you  to-night."  There  was  a  note  of  brusque  finality  in 
his  voice  that  Said  recognised,  and  he  shrugged 
acquiescence  as  he  lit  another  cigarette.  "It  is  almost 
certain  death,"  he  said,  with  nonchalant  oriental  calm. 
But  Craven  did  not  answer  and  Said  relapsed  into  a 
silence  that  was  protracted.  From  the  midst  of  the  blue 
haze  surrounding  him,  his  earnest  scrutiny  hidden  by 
the  thick  lashes  that  curved  downwards  to  his  swarthy 
cheek,  he  gazed  intently  through  half-closed  eyes  at  the 
friend  whose  presence  he  found  for  the  first  time  embarrass- 
ing. Fatalist  though  he  was  in  all  things  that  con- 
cerned himself,  western  influence  had  bitten  deep  enough 


234  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

to  make  him  realise  that  the  same  doctrine  did  hot 
extend  to  Craven.  He  recognised  that  self-determina- 
tion came  more  largely  into  the  Englishman's  creed  than 
into  his  own.  Whether  he  himself  lived  or  died  was 
a  matter  of  no  great  moment.  But  with  Craven  it  was 
otherwise  and  he  had  no  liking  for  the  thought  that 
should  the  morrow's  venture  go  against  them  his  friend's 
blood  would,  virtually,  be  upon  his  hands!  So  far  had 
his  Francophile  tendencies  taken  him.  And  the  more 
he  dwelt  upon  the  uncomfortable  fact  the  less  he  liked  it. 
He  turned  his  attention  more  directly  upon  the  man  him- 
self and  he  noted  changes  that  surprised  and  disturbed 
him.  The  stern  weary  looking  face  was  not  the  careless 
smiling  one  he  remembered.  The  man  he  had  known 
had  been  vividly  alive,  care-free  and  animated;  one  who 
had  jested  alike  at  life  and  death  with  an  indifferent 
laugh,  but  one  who  though  careless  of  danger  even  to 
the  extent  of  foolhardiness  had  never  given  any  indica- 
tion of  a  desire  to  quit  a  life  that  was  obviously  easy  and 
attractive.  But  this  man  was  different,  grave  and  abrupt 
of  speech,  with  an  air  of  tired  suffering,  and  a  grim  pur- 
posefulness  in  his  determination  to  ignore  his  friend's 
warning  that  conveyed  an  impression  of  underlying 
sinister  intent  that  set  the  Arab  wondering  what  sting 
had  poisoned  his  life  even  to  the  desire  to  sacrifice  it. 
For  the  look  on  Craven's  face  was  not  new  to  him,  he 
had  seen  it  before  —  on  the  face  of  a  French  officer  in 
Algiers  who  had  subsequently  taken  his  own  life,  and 
again  this  very  evening  on  the  face  of  his  brother  Omar. 
The  personalities  of  the  three  men  were  widely  different, 
but  the  expression  of  each  was  identical.  The  deduction 
was  simple  and  yet  to  him  wholly  inexplicable.  A 
woman  —  without  doubt  a  woman !  In  the  first  two  cases 
it  was  certainly  so,  he  seemed  to  know  instinctively  that 
here,  too,  he  was  not  mistaken  in  his  supposition.  A 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  235 

puzzled  look  crept  into  his  fine  dark  eyes  and  a  cynical 
smile  hovered  round  his  mouth  as  he  viewed  these  three 
dissimilar  men  from  the  height  of  his  own  contemptuous 
indifference  towards  any  and  every  woman.  It  was  a 
weakness  he  did  not  understand,  a  phase  of  life  that 
held  no  meaning  for  him  at  all.  He  had  never  bestowed 
a  second  glance  on  any  woman  of  his  own  race,  the  atten- 
tions of  European  women  in  Paris  and  Algiers  had  been 
met  with  cold  scorn  that  he  masked  with  racial  gravity 
of  demeanour  or  frank  insolence  according  to  circum- 
stances. For  him  women  did  not  exist;  he  lived  for  his 
horses,  for  his  regiment  and  for  sport.  To  his  strangely 
cold  nature  the  influence  that  women  exercised  over 
other  men  was  a  thing  inconceivable  —  the  houris  of  the 
paradise  of  his  fathers'  creed  were  to  him  no  incentive  to 
enter  the  realms  of  the  blessed.  A  character  apart, 
incomprehensible  alike  to  the  warm-blooded  Frenchmen 
with  whom  he  associated  and  to  his  own  passionate 
countrymen,  he  maintained  his  peculiarity  tranquilly, 
undisturbed  by  the  banter  of  his  friends  and  the  admoni- 
tions of  his  father,  who  in  view  of  his  heir's  childlessness 
regarded  his  younger  son's  temperament  with  growing 
uneasiness  as  the  years  advanced. 

The  action  of  the  French  officer  in  Algiers  had  pro- 
voked in  Said  only  intolerant  contempt  but,  as  he  realised 
tonight,  contempt  was  not  possible  in  the  cases  of  Craven 
and  his  brother.  He  pondered  it  with  a  curious  feeling 
of  irritation.  What  was  it  after  all,  this  emotion  of  which 
he  was  ignorant  —  this  compelling  impulse  that  entered 
into  a  man  driving  him  beyond  the  power  of  endurance? 
tt  was  past  his  comprehension.  And  he  wondered  suddenly 
for  the  first  time  why  he  had  been  made  so  different 
to  the  generality  of  men.  But  introspection  was  foreign 
to  him,  he  had  not  been  in  the  habit  of  dissecting  his 
own  personality  and  his  thoughts  turned  quickly  with 


«36  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

greater  interest  to  the  man  who  sat  near  him  plunged 
like  himself  into  silent  reverie.  And  as  he  looked  he 
scowled  with  angry  irritation.  The  Frenchman  in  Algiers 
had  not  mattered,  but  Omar  and  Craven  mattered  very 
much.  He  resented  the  suffering  he  did  not  understand  — 
the  termination  of  a  friendship  he  valued,  for  it  was 
almost  inevitable  should  Craven  persist  in  his  decision 
and  the  loss  of  a  brother  who  was  dearer  to  him  than 
he  would  admit  and  whose  death  would  mean  a  greater 
change  in  his  own  life  than  he  cared  to  contemplate. 
That  through  a  woman  this  should  be  possible!  With 
hearty  thoroughness  and  picturesque  attention  to  detail 
he  silently  cursed  all  women  in  general  and  two  women 
in  particular.  For  the  seriousness  of  the  venture  lay, 
at  the  moment,  heavily  upon  him.  He  was  tired  and 
his  enthusiasm  temporarily  damped  by  the  unexpected 
and  incomprehensible  attitude  of  the  two  men  by  whom 
alone  he  permitted  himself  to  be  influenced.  But  gradu- 
ally his  natural  buoyancy  reasserted  itself,  and  abandon- 
ing as  insoluble  the  perplexing  problem,  he  spoke  again 
eagerly  of  the  impending  meeting  with  his  hereditary 
foes.  For  hah5  an  hour  they  talked  earnestly  and  then 
Said  rose,  announcing  his  intention  of  getting  a  few 
hours  sleep  before  the  early  start.  But  he  deferred  his 
going,  making  one  pretext  after  another  for  remaining, 
walking  about  the  little  tent  in  undecided  hesitation, 
plainly  embarrassed.  Finally  he  swung  toward  Craven 
with  a  characteristic  gesture  of  his  long  arms. 

"Can  I  say  nothing  to  deter  you  from  this  expedi- 
tion?" 

"Nothing,"  replied  Craven;  "y°u  always  promised 
me  a  fight  some  day  —  do  you  want  to  do  me  out  of  it 
now,  you  selfish  devil?"  he  added  with  a  laugh,  to  which 
Sai'd  did  not  respond.  With  an  inarticulate  grunt  he 
moved  toward  the  door,  pausing  as  he  went  out  to  fling 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  237 

ov«r  his  shoulder:  "I'll  send  you  a  burnous  and  the 
rest  of  the  kit." 

"A  burnous  —  what  for?" 

"What  for?"  echoed  Sa'id,  coining  back  into  the 
tent,  his  eyes  wide  with  astonishment.  "Allah!  to 
wear,  of  course,  mon  cher.  You  can't  go  as  you  are.'* 

"Why  not?" 

The  Arab  rolled  his  eyes  heavenward  and  waved  his 
hands  in  protest  as  he  burst  out  vehemently:  "Because 
they  will  take  you  for  a  Frenchman,  a  spy,  an  agent  of 
the  Government,  and  they  will  finish  you  off  even  before 
they  turn  their  attention  to  us.  They  hate  us,  by  the 
Koran!  but  they  hate  a  Frenchman  worse.  You  wouldn't 
have  the  shadow  of  a  chance. " 

Craven  looked  at  him  curiously  for  a  few  moments, 
and  then  he  smiled.  "You're  a  good  fellow,  Said,"  he 
said  quietly,  taking  the  cigarette  the  other  offered,  "but 
I'll  go  as  I  am,  all  the  same.  I'm  not  used  to  your 
picturesque  togs,  they  would  only  hamper  me." 

For  a  little  while  longer  Said  remained  arguing  and 
entreating  by  turns  and  then  went  away  suddenly  in  the 
middle  of  a  sentence,  and  for  a  few  minutes  Craven  stood 
in  the  door  of  the  tent  watching  his  retreating  figure  by 
the  light  of  the  newly  risen  moon  with  a  smile  that  softened 
his  face  incredibly. 

Then  he  turned  back  into  the  tent  and  once  more  drew 
toward  him  the  writing  materials. 

The  difficulty  he  had  before  felt  had  passed  away.  It 
seemed  suddenly  quite  easy  to  write  and  he  wondered 
why  it  had  appeared  so  impossible  earlier  in  the  evening. 
Words,  phrases,  leaped  to  his  mind,  sentences  seemed  to 
form  themselves,  and,  with  rapidly  moving  pen,  he 
wrote  without  faltering  for  the  best  part  of  an  hour  —  all 
he  had  never  dared  to  say,  more  almost  than  he  had  ever 
dared  to  think.  He  did  not  spare  himself.  The  tragic 


238  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

history  of  O  Hara  San  he  gave  in  all  its  pitifulness  with- 
out attempting  to  extenuate  or  shield  himself  in  any 
way;  he  sketched  frankly  the  girl's  loneliness  and  childish 
ignorance,  his  own  casual  and  selfish  acceptance  of  the 
sacrifice  she  made  and  the  terrible  catastrophe  that  had 
brought  him  to  abrupt  and  horrible  conviction  of  him- 
self, and  his  subsequent  determination  to  end  the  life  he 
had  marred  and  wasted.  He  wrote  of  the  coming  of 
John  Locke's  letter  at  the  moment  of  his  deepest  abase- 
ment, and  of  the  chance  it  had  seemed  to  offer;  of  her 
own  entry  into  his  life  and  the  love  for  her  that  almost 
from  the  first  moment  had  sprung  up  withir  him. 

In  its  entirety  he  laid  bare  the  burning  hopeless  passion 
that  consumed  him,  the  torturing  longing  that  possessed 
him,  and  the  knowledge  of  his  own  unworthiness  that 
had  driven  him  from  her  that  she  might  be  free  with 
a  freedom  that  would  be  at  last  absolute.  But  even  in 
this  letter  which  tore  down  so  completely  the  barrier 
between  them  he  did  not  admit  to  her  the  true  reason 
of  his  marriage,  he  preferred  to  leave  it  obscure  as  it  had 
always  been,  even  should  the  motive  she  might  attribute 
to  him  be  the  wrong  one.  He  must  chance  that  and 
the  impression  it  might  leave  with  her.  Her  future  life 
he  alluded  to  very  briefly  not  caring  to  dwell  on  business 
that  was  already  cut  and  dried,  but  referring  her  to 
Peters  who  was  fully  instructed  and  on  whose  advice 
and  help  she  could  count.  He  expressed  no  wish  with 
regard  to  Craven  Towers  and  his  other  properties,  leaving 
her  free  to  dispose  of  or  retain  them  as  she  pleased.  He 
shrank  from  suggesting  in  any  way  that  she  benefited  by 
his  death. 

He  saw  her  before  him  as  he  wrote.  It  seemed  almost 
as  if  the  ardent  passionate  words  were  spoken  to  present 
listening  ears,  and  as  with  Peters'  letter  he  did  not  reread 
the  many  closely  written  sheets.  What  use?  He 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  239 

did  not  wish  to  alter  or  amend  anything  he  had  said. 
He  had  done,  and  a  deeper  peace  came  to  him  than  he 
had  known  since  those  far  away  days  in  Japan. 

He  called  to  Yoshio.  Almost  before  the  words  had 
left  his  lips  the  man  was  beside  him.  And  as  the  Jap 
listened  to  the  minute  instructions  given  him  the  light 
that  had  sprung  to  his  eyes  died  out  of  them  and  his 
face  became  if  possible  more  than  usually  stolid  and 
inscrutable. 

"You  quite  understand?"  said  Craven  hi  conclusion. 
"You  will  wait  here  until  it  becomes  evident  that  further 
waiting  is  useless.  Then  you  are  to  go  straight  back 
to  England  and  give  those  letters  into  Mrs.  Craven's  own 
hand." 

With  marked  reluctance  Yoshio  slowly  took  up  the 
two  heavy  packets  and  fingered  them  for  a  time  silently. 
Then  with  a  sudden  exclamation  in  his  own  language  he 
shook  his  head  and  pushed  them  back  across  the  table. 
"Going  with  master,"  he  announced  phlegmatically, 
and  raised  his  eyes  with  a  glance  that  was  at  once  provoc- 
ative and  stubborn.  Craven  met  his  direct  stare  with 
a  feeling  of  surprise.  Only  once  before  had  the  docile 
Japanese  asserted  himself  definitely  and  the  memory  of 
it  made  anger  now  impossible.  He  pointed  to  the  letters 
lying  on  the  table  between  them.  "You  have  your 
orders,"  he  said  quietly,  and  cut  short  further  protests 
with  a  quick  gesture  of  authority.  "Do  as  you're  told, 
you  obstinate  little  devil,"  he  added,  with  a  short  laugh. 
And  like  a  chidden  child  Yoshio  pocketed  the  letters 
sullenly.  Stifling  a  yawn  Craven  kicked  off  his  boots 
and  moved  over  to  the  bed  with  a  glance  at  his  watch. 
He  flung  himself  down,  dressed  as  he  was. 

"Two  hours,  Yoshio  —  not  a  minute  longer,"  he  mur- 
mured drowsily,  and  slept  almost  before  his  head  touched 
the  pillow. 


»40  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

For  an  hour  or  more,  squatting  motionless  on  his  heels 
in  the  middle  of  the  tent,  Yoshio  watched  him,  his  mask- 
like  face  expressionless,  his  eyes  fixed  in  an  unwavering 
stare.  Then  he  rose  cautiously  and  glided  from  the  tent. 

During  the  last  two  years  Craven  had  become  accus- 
tomed to  snatching  a  few  hours  of  sleep  when  and  how 
he  could.  He  slept  now  deeply  and  dreamlessly.  And 
when  the  two  hours  were  passed  and  Yoshio  woke  him 
he  sprang  up,  wide  awake  on  the  instant,  refreshed  by 
the  short  rest.  In  silence  that  was  no  longer  sullen  the 
valet  indicated  a  complete  Arab  outfit  he  had  brought 
back  with  him  to  the  tent,  but  Craven  waved  it  aside 
with  a  smile  at  the  thought  of  Said's  pertinacity  and 
finished  his  dressing  quickly.  As  he  concluded  his  hasty 
preparations  he  found  time  to  wonder  at  his  own  frame 
of  mind.  He  had  an  odd  feeling  of  aloofness  that  pre- 
cluded even  excitement.  It  was  as  if  his  spirit,  already 
freed,  looked  down  from  some  immeasurable  height  with 
scant  interest  upon  the  doings  of  a  being  who  wore  the 
earthly  semblance  of  himself  but  who  mattered  not  at 
all.  He  seemed  to  be  above  and  beyond  actualities.  He 
heard  himself  repeating  the  instructions  he  had  given 
earlier  to  Yoshio,  he  found  himself  taking  leave  of  the 
faithful  little  Jap  and  wondering  slightly  at  the  man's 
apparent  unconcern.  But  outside  the  little  tent  the 
strange  feeling  left  him  suddenly  as  it  had  come.  The 
cool  wind  that  an  hour  later  would  usher  in  the  dawn 
blew  about  his  face  dispelling  the  visionary  sensation 
that  had  taken  hold  of  him.  He  drew  a  deep  breath 
looking  eagerly  at  the  beauty  of  the  moon-lit  night,  feel- 
ing himself  once  more  keenly  alive,  keenly  excited  at  the 
prospect  of  the  coming  venture. 

Excitement  was  rife  also  in  the  camp  and  he  made  his 
way  with  difficulty  through  the  jostling  throng  of  men 
and  horses  towards  the  rallying  point  before  the  old 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  241 

Sheik's  tent.  The  noise  was  deafening,  and  trampling 
screaming  horses  wheeled  and  backed  among  the  crowd 
pressing  around  them.  With  shouts  of  acclamation  a 
way  was  made  for  the  Englishman  and  he  passed  through 
the  dense  ranks  to  the  open  space  where  Mukair  Ibn 
Zarrarah  with  his  two  sons  and  a  little  group  of  head- 
men were  standing.  They  welcomed  him  with  charac- 
teristic gravity  and  Said  proffered  the  inevitable 
cigarette  with  a  reproachful  glance  at  his  khaki  clothing. 
For  a  few  moments  they  conversed  and  then  the  Sheik 
stepped  forward  with  uplifted  hand.  The  clamour  of 
the  people  gave  way  to  a  deep  silence.  In  a  short  im- 
passioned speech  the  old  man  bade  his  tribe  go  forward 
ir  the  name  of  the  one  God,  Merciful  and  Beneficent. 
And  as  his  arm  dropped  to  his  side  again  a  mighty  shout 
broke  from  the  assembled  multitude.  Allah!  Allah!  the 
fierce  exultant  cry  rose  in  a  swelling  volume  of  sound  as 
the  fighting  men  leaped  to  their  maddened  horses 
dragging  them  back  into  orderly  ranks  from  among  the 
press  of  onlookers  and  tossing  their  long  guns  in  the  ak- 
in frenzied  excitement.  A  magnificent  black  stallion 
was  led  up  to  Craven,  and  the  Sheik  soothed  the  beauti- 
ful quivering  creature,  caressing  his  shapely  head  with 
trembling  nervy  fingers.  "He  is  my  favourite,  he  will 
carry  you  well,"  he  murmured  with  a  proud  smile  as  he 
watched  Craven  handling  the  spirited  animal.  Mounted 
Craven  bent  down  and  wrung  Mukair  Ibn  Zarrarah's 
hand  and  in  another  moment  he  found  himself  riding 
between  Omar  and  Said  at  the  head  of  the  troop  as  it 
moved  off  followed  by  the  ringing  shouts  of  those  who 
were  left  behind.  He  had  a  last  momentary  glimpse  of 
the  old  Sheik,  a  solitary  upright  figure  of  pathetic  dignity, 
standing  before  his  tent,  and  then  the  camp  seemed 
to  slide  away  behind  them  as  the  pace  increased  and 
they  reached  the  edge  of  the  oasis  and  emerged  on  to 


242  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

the  open  desert.  A  few  minutes  more  and  the  fretting 
horses  settled  down  into  a  steady  gallop.  The  dense 
ranks  of  tribesmen  were  silent  at  last,  and  only  the 
rythmical  thud  of  hoofs  sounded  with  a  muffled  beat 
against  the  soft  shifting  sand. 

Craven  felt  himself  in  strange  accordance  with  the  men 
with  whom  he  rode.  The  love  of  hazardous  adventure 
that  was  in  his  blood  leaped  into  activity  and  a  keen 
fierce  pleasure  swept  him  at  the  thought  of  the  coming 
conflict.  The  death  he  sought  was  the  death  he  had 
always  hoped  for  —  the  crashing  clamour  of  the  battle- 
field, the  wild  tumultuous  impact  of  contending  forces, 
with  the  whining  scream  of  flying  bullets  in  his  ears.  To 
die  —  and,  dying,  to  atone ! 

"Come  to  Me  all  ye  who     .     .     .    are  heavy  laden 
and  I  will  give  you  rest. "  . 

Might  that  ineffable  rest  that  was  promised  be  even  for 
him?  Would  his  deep  repentance,  the  agony  of  spirit 
he  had  endured,  be  payment  enough?  Eternal  death  — 
the  everlasting  hell  of  the  Jehovah  of  the  ancients!  Not 
that,  merciful  God,  but  the  compassion  of  Christ 

"He  that  cometh  unto  Me  I  will  in  no  wise  cast  out." 

On  that  terrible  day  in  Yokohama  that  seemed  so 
many  weary  years  ago  Craven  had  laid  his  sin-stained 
soul  in  all  sincerity  and  humbleness  at  the  feet  of  the 
Divine  Redeemer,  but  with  no  thought  or  hope  of  for- 
giveness. Always  the  necessity  of  personal  atonement 
had  remained  with  him,  without  which  by  his  reasoning 
there  could  be  no  salvation.  That  offered,  but  not  until 
then,  he  would  trust  in  the  compassion  that  passed  man's 
understanding.  And  to-night  —  to-day  —  he  seemed 
nearer  than  he  had  ever  been  to  the  fulfilment  of  his 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  243 

desire.  The  mental  burden  that  had  lain  like  an  actual 
crushing  weight  upon  him  seemed  to  slip  away  into 
nothingness.  A  long  deep  sigh  of  wonderful  relief 
escaped  him  and  he  drew  himself  straighter  in  the  saddle, 
a  new  peace  dawning  in  his  eyes  as  he  raised  them  to  the 
starlit  sky.  Out  of  the  past  there  flashed  into  his  mind 
the  picture  —  forgotten  since  the  days  of  childhood  —  of 
Christian  freed  of  his  burden  at  the  foot  of  the  Cross,  as 
represented  in  the  old  copy  of  the  "Pilgrim's  Progress" 
over  which  he  had  pored  as  a  boy,  enthralled  by  the 
quaint  text  which  he  had  known  nearly  by  heart  and 
fascinated  by  the  curious  illustrations  that  had  appealed 
to  his  young  imagination. 

The  years  rolled  back,  he  saw  himself  again  a  little  lad 
stretched  on  the  rug  before  the  fire  in  the  library  at 
Craven  Towers,  the  big  book  propped  open  before  him, 
studying  with  a  child's  love  of  the  grotesque  the  grisly 
picture  of  Apollyon  whose  hideous  black-winged  form 
had  to  his  boyish  mind  been  the  actual  image  of  the 
devil,  a  tangible  demon  whom  he  had  longed  to  conquer 
like  Christian  armed  with  sword  and  shield.  The  childish 
idea,  a  bodily  adversary  to  contend  with  —  it  would  have 
been  simpler.  But  the  devil  in  a  man's  own  heart,  the 
insidious  inward  prompting  to  sin  that  unrepelled  grows 
imperceptibly  stronger  and  greater  until  the  realisation 
of  sin  committed  comes  with  horrible  suddenness!  To 
Craven,  as  to  many  others,  came  the  futile  longing  to 
have  his  life  to  live  again,  to  start  afresh  from  the  days 
of  innoceiicy  when  he  had  hung,  enraptured,  over  tlie 
woodcuts  of  the  "Pilgrim's  Progress."  He  forced  his 
thoughts  back  to  the  present.  Death,  not  life,  lay  before 
him.  Instinctively  he  glanced  at  the  man  who  rode  at 
his  right  hand.  In  the  cold  white  moonlight  the  Arab's 
face  was  like  a  piece  of  beautiful  carved  bronze,  still 
and  terrible  in  its  fixed  intentness.  Sitting  his  hors» 


244          'THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

»  ~^*,'y    V 

with  evident  difficulty,  animated  by  mere  strength  of 
will,  his  wasted  frame  rigidly  upright,  his  sombre  tragic 
eyes  peering  steadfastly  ahead,  he  seemed  in  his  grim 
purposefulness  the  very  incarnation  of  avenging  justice. 
And  as  Craven  looked  at  him  covertly  he  wondered  what 
lay  hidden  behind  those  set  features,  what  of  hope,  what 
of  fear,  what  of  despair  was  seething  in  the  fierce  heart 
of  the  desert  man.  Of  the  dearly  loved  -wife  who  had 
been  ravished  from  him  there  had  come  no  further  word, 
her  fate  was  unknown.  Had  she  died,  or  did  she  still 
live  —  in  shameful  captivity,  the  slave  of  the  renegade 
who  had  made  her  the  price  of  his  treachery?  What 
additional  horror  still  awaited  the  unhappy  husband  who 
rode  to  avenge  her?  With  a  slight  shudder  Craven 
turned  from  the  contemplation  of  a  sorrow  that  seemed 
to  him  even  greater  than  his  own  and  sought  his  left 
hand  neighbour.  With  a  quick  smile  Said's  eyes  met 
his.  With  an  easy  swing  of  his  graceful  body  he  drew 
his  horse  nearer  to  the  spirited  stallion  Craven  was 
riding  but  did  not  speak.  The  ready  flow  of  conversa- 
tion that  was  habitual  had  apparently  forsaken  him. 

The  young  Arab's  silence  was  welcome,  Craven  had 
himself  no  desire  to  speak.  The  dawn  wind  was  blow- 
ing cool  against  his  forehead,  soothing  him.  The  easy 
gallop  of  the  horse  between  his  knees,  tractable  and 
steady  now  he  was  allowed  free  rein,  was  to  him  the 
height  of  physical  enjoyment.  He  would  get  from  it 
what  he  could,  he  thought  with  a  swift  smile  of  self 
mockery  —  the  flesh  still  urged  in  contradiction  to  his 
firm  resolve.  It  was  a  blind  country  through  which  they 
were  riding,  though  seemingly  level  the  ground  rose  and 
fell  in  a  succession  of  long  undulating  sweeps  that  made 
a  wide  outlook  impossible.  A  regiment  could  lie  hidden 
in  the  hollows  among  the  twisting  deviating  sandy 
hillocks  and  be  passed  unnoticed.  And  as  he  topped 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  245 

each  rise  at  the  head  of  the  Arab  troop  Craven  looked 
forward  eagerly  with  unfailing  interest.  He  hardly 
knew  for  what  he  looked  for  their  destination  lay  many 
miles  further  southward  and  the  possibility  of  unexpected 
attack  had  been  foreseen  by  Mukair  Ibn  Zarrarah,  whose 
scouts  had  ranged  the  district  for  weeks  past,  but  the 
impression  once  aroused  of  an  impending  something 
lingered  persistently  and  fixed  his  attention. 

From  time  to  time  the  waiting  scouts  joined  them, 
solitary  horsemen  riding  with  reckless  speed  over  the 
broken  ground  or  slipping  silently  from  the  shadow  of  a 
side  track  to  make  a  brief  report  and  then  take  their 
place  among  the  ranks  of  tribesmen.  So  far  they  told 
no  more  than  was  already  known.  The  wind  blew 
keener  as  the  dawn  approached.  Far  in  the  east  the  first 
faint  pinky  streaks  were  spreading  across  the  sky,  over- 
head the  twinkling  stars  paled  one  by  one  and  vanished. 
The  atmosphere  grew  suddenly  chill.  The  surrounding 
desert  had  before  been  strangely  silent,  not  so  much  as 
the  wailing  cry  of  a  jackal  had  broken  the  intense  still- 
ness, but  now  an  even  deeper  hush,  mysterious  and 
pregnant,  closed  down  over  the  land.  For  the  time  all 
nature  seemed  to  hang  in  suspense,  waiting,  watching. 
To  Craven  the  wonder  of  the  dawn  was  not  new,  he  had 
seen  if  often  in  many  countries,  but  it  was  a  marvel  of 
which  he  never  tired.  And  there  was  about  this  sunrise 
a  significance  that  had  been  attached  to  no  other  he  had 
ever  witnessed.  Eagerly  he  watched  the  faint  flush 
brighten  and  intensify,  the  pale  streaks  spread  and  widen 
into  far  flung  bars  of  flaming  gold  and  crimson.  Day- 
light came  with  startling  suddenness  and  as  the  glow- 
ing disc  of  the  sun  rose  red  above  the  horizon  a  horseman 
broke  from  the  galloping  ranks,  and  spurring  in  advance 
of  the  troop,  wheeled  his  horse  and  dragged  him  to  an 
abrupt  standstill.  Rising  in  his  stirrups  he  flung  his 


246  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

arms  in  fervid  ecstasy  toward  the  heavens.  Craven 
recognised  in  him  a  young  Mullah  of  fanatical  tendencies 
who  had  been  particularly  active  in  the  camp  during  the 
preceding  week.  That  the  opposing  tribe  was  of  a  dif- 
ferent sect,  abhorred  by  the  followers  of  Mukair  Ibn 
Zarrarah,  had  been  an  original  cause  of  dissent  between 
them,  and  the  priests  had  made  good  use  of  the  oppor- 
tunity of  fanning  religious  zeal. 

The  cavalcade  came  to  a  sudden  halt,  and  as  Craven 
with  difficulty  reined  in  his  own  horse  the  sustained  and 
penetrating  cry  of  the  muezzin  rose  weirdly  high  and  clear 
on  the  morning  air,  "  al-ilah-i lah-ilah. "  The  arresting  and 
solemn  invocation  had  always  had  for  Craven  a  peculiar 
fascination,  and  as  the  last  lingering  notes  died  away  it 
was  not  purely  from  a  motive  of  expediency  that  he  fol- 
lowed the  common  impulse  and  knelt  among  the  pros- 
trate Arabs.  His  creed  differed  from  theirs  but  he  wor- 
shipped the  same  God  as  they,  and  in  his  heart  he  respected 
their  overt  profession  of  faith. 

As  he  rose  from  his  knees  he  caught  Said's  eyes  bent 
on  him  with  a  curious  look  in  them  of  interrogation  that 
was  at  once  faintly  mocking  and  yet  sad.  But  the  expres- 
sion passed  quickly  into  a  boyish  grin  as  he  waved  an 
unlit  cigarette  toward  the  fiery  young  priest  who  had 
seized  the  chance  to  embark  on  a  passionate  harangue. 

"When  prayer  is  ended  disperse  yourselves  through 
the  land  as  ye  list,"  he  murmured,  with  a  flippant  laugh 
at  the  perverted  quotation.  "The  holy  man  will  preach 
till  our  tongues  blacken  with  thirst."  And  he  turned  to 
his  brother  to  urge  him  to  give  the  order  to  remount. 
Omar  was  leaning  against  his  horse,  his  tall  figure 
sagging  with  fatigue.  He  started  violently  as  Said 
spoke  to  him,  and,  staggering,  would  have  fallen  but 
for  the  strong  arm  slipped  round  him.  And,  watching 
Craven  saw  with  dismay  a  dark  stain  mar  the  whiteness 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  247 

of  his  robes  where  a  wound  had  broken  out  afresh,  and 
he  wondered  whether  the  weakened  body  would  be  able 
to  respond  to  the  urging  of  the  resolute  will  that  drove  it 
mercilessly,  or,  when  almost  within  view,  the  fiercely 
longed  for  revenge  would  yet  be  snatched  from  him. 

But  with  an  effort  the  Arab  pulled  himself  together 
and,  mounting,  painfully  cut  short  the  Mullah's 
eloquence  and  gave  in  a  firm  tone  the  desired  order. 

The  swift  gallop  southward  was  resumed. 

The  breeze  dropped  gradually  and  finally  died  away, 
but  for  an  hour  or  more  the  refreshing  coolness  lingered. 
Then  as  the  sun  rose  higher  and  gained  in  strength  the 
air  grew  steadily  warmer  until  the  heat  became  intense 
and  Craven  began  to  look  eagerly  for  the  oasis  that  was 
to  be  their  first  halting  place.  In  full  daylight  the  land- 
scape that  by  night  had  seemed  to  possess  an  eerie  charm 
developed  a  dull  monotony.  The  successive  rise  and 
fall  of  the  land,  always  with  its  limited  outlook,  became 
tedious,  and  the  labyrinthine  hillocks  with  their 
intricate  windings  seemed  to  enclose  them  inextricably. 
But  on  reaching  the  summit  of  a  longer  steeper  incline 
that  had  perceptibly  slowed  the  galloping  horses,  he  saw 
spread  out  before  him  a  level  tract  of  country  stretching 
far  into  the  distance,  with  a  faint  blue  smudge  beyond 
of  the  chain  of  hills  that  Said  told  him  marked  the 
boundary  of  the  territory  that  Mukair  Ibn  Zarrarah 
regarded  as  his  own,  the  boundary,  too,  of  French  juris- 
diction. Through  a  defile  in  the  hills  lay  the  enemy 
country. 

The  change  was  welcome  to  men  and  horses  alike,  the 
latter  —  aware  with  unerring  instinct  of  the  nearness  of 
water  —  of  their  own  accord  increased  their  pace  and 
thundering  down  the  last  long  shifting  slope  pressed 
forward  eagerly  toward  the  oasis  that  Craven  judged  to 
be  between  two  and  three  miles  away.  In  the.  clear 


848  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

deceptive  atmosphere  it  appeared  much  nearer,  and  yet 
as  they  raced  onward  it  seemed  to  come  no  closer  but 
rather  to  recede  as  though  some  malevolent  demon  of  the 
desert  in  wanton  sport  was  conjuring  it  tantalizingly 
further  and  further  from  them.  The  tall  feathery  palms, 
seen  through  the  shimmering  heat  haze,  took  an  exagger- 
ated height  towering  fantastically  above  the  scrub  of 
bushy  thorn  trees. 

Craven  had  even  a  moment's  doubt  whether  the 
mirage-like  oasis  actually  existed  or  was  merely  a  delusion 
bred  of  fancy  and  desire.  But  the  absurdity  of  the  doubt 
came  home  to  him  as  he  looked  again  at  the  outline 
of  the  distant  hills  —  too  conspicuous  a  landmark  to 
allow  of  any  error  on  the  part  of  his  companions  to  whom 
the  country  was  familiar. 

The  prospect  of  the  welcome  shade  made  him  more 
sensitive  to  the  scorching  strength  of  the  sun  that  up  till 
now  he  had  endured  without  more  than  a  passing  sensa- 
tion of  discomfort.  He  was  inured  to  heat,  but  to-day's 
heat  was  extraordinary,  and  even  the  Arabs  were  begin- 
ning to  show  signs  of  distress.  It  was  many  hours  since 
they  started  and  the  pace  had  been  killing.  His  mouth 
was  parched  and  his  eyeballs  smarted  with  the  blinding 
glare.  With  the  thirst  that  increased  each  moment  the 
last  half  mile  seemed  longer  than  all  the  preceding  ride, 
and  when  the  oasis  was  at  length  reached  he  slipped  from 
his  sweating  horse  with  an  exclamation  of  relief. 

The  Arabs  crowded  round  the  well  and  in  a  moment 
the  little  peaceful  spot  was  the  scene  of  noisy  confusion; 
men  shouting,  scrambling  and  gesticulating,  horses 
squealing,  and  above  all  the  creaking  whine  of  the  tack- 
ling over  the  well  droning  mournfully  as  the  bucket  rose 
and  fell.  Said  swung  himself  easily  to  the  ground  and 
held  his  brother's  plunging  horse  while  he  dismounted. 
For  a  few  moments  they  conversed  together  in  a  rapid 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  249 

undertone,  and  then  the  younger  man  turned  to  Craven, 
a  cloud  on  his  handsome  face.  "Our  communication 
has  broken  down.  Two  scouts  should  have  met  us  here, " 
he  said,  with  a  hint  of  anxiety  in  his  voice.  "It  dis- 
concerts our  scheme  for  we  counted  on  their  report. 
They  may  be  late  —  it  is  hardly  likely.  They  had  ample 
time.  More  probably  they  have  been  ambushed  —  the 
country  is  filled  with  spies  —  in  which  event  the  advan- 
tage lies  with  the  other  side.  They  will  know  that  we 
have  started,  while  we  shall  have  no  further  information. 
The  two  men  who  are  missing  were  the  only  ones  operating 
beyond  the  border.  The  last  scout  who  reported  himself 
was  in  touch  with  them  last  night.  From  them  he  learned 
that  two  days  ago  the  enemy  were  forty  miles  south  of 
the  hills  yonder.  We  had  hoped  to  catch  them  unawares, 
but  they  may  have  got  wind  of  our  intentions  and  be 
nearer  than  we  expect.  The  curse  of  Allah  on  them!"  he 
added  impatiently. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?"  asked  Craven  with  a 
backward  glance  at  the  dismounted  tribesmen  clustering 
round  the  well  and  busily  employed  in  making  prepara- 
tions for  rest  and  food.  Said  beckoned  to  a  passing  Arab 
and  dispatched  him  with  a  hurried  order.  Then  he 
turned  again  to  Craven.  "The  horses  must  rest  though 
the  men  would  go  forward  at  a  word.  I  am  sending  two 
scouts  to  reconnoitre  the  defile  and  bring  back  what 
information  they  can, "  he  said.  And  as  he  spoke  the  two 
men  he  had  sent  for  appeared  with  disciplined  prompt- 
ness and  reined  in  beside  him.  Having  received  their 
brief  instructions  they  started  off  in  a  cloud  of  dust  and 
sand  at  the  usual  headlong  gallop.  Said  turned  away 
immediately  and  disappeared  among  the  jostling  crowd, 
but  Craven  lingered  at  the  edge  of  the  oasis  looking  after 
the  fast  receding  horsemen  who,  crouched  low  in  their 
saddles,  their  long  white  cloaks  swelling  round  them- 


250  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

were  very  literally  carrying  out  their  orders  to  ride 
"swift  as  the  messengers  of  Azrael."  He  had  known 
them  both  on  his  previous  visits,  though  he  had  not 
recognised  them  in  the  dark  hours  of  the  dawn  when  they 
joined  the  troop,  and  remembered  them  as  two  of  the 
most  dare-devil  and  intrepid  of  Mukair  Ibn  Zarrarah's 
followers.  A  moment  since  they  had  grinned  at  him  in 
cheery  greeting,  exhibiting  almost  childlike  pleasure 
when  he  had  called  them  by  name,  and  had  set  off  with 
an  obeisance  as  deep  to  him  as  to  their  leader. 

Incidents  of  those  earlier  visits  flashed  through  his 
mind  as  he  watched  them  speeding  across  the  glaring 
plain  and  a  feeling  almost  of  regret  came  to  him  that  it 
should  be  these  two  particular  men  who  had  been  selected 
for  the  hazardous  mission.  For  he  guessed  that  their 
chance  of  return  was  slight.  And  yet  hardly  slighter 
than  for  the  rest  of  them !  With  a  shrug  he  moved  away 
slowly  and  sought  the  shadow  of  a  camel  thorn.  He  lay 
on  his  back  in  the  welcome  patch  of  shade,  his  helmet 
tilted  over  his  eyes,  drawing  vigorously  at  a  cigarette 
in  the  vain  hope  of  lessening  the  attentions  of  the 
swarms  of  tormenting  flies  that  buzzed  about  him, 
and  waiting  patiently  for  the  desired  water  before  he 
swallowed  the  dark  brown  unsavoury  mass  of  crushed 
dates  which,  warm  from  his  pocket  and  gritty  with  the 
sand  that  penetrated  everything,  was  the  only  food  avail- 
able. Said  was  still  busy  among  the  throng  of  men  and 
horses,  but  near  him  Omar  sat  plunged  in  gloomy  silence, 
his  melancholy  eyes  fixed  on  the  distant  hills.  He  had 
re-adjusted  his  robes,  screening  the  ominous  stain  that 
revealed  what  he  wished  to  hide.  His  hands,  which 
alone  might  have  betrayed  the  emotion  surging  under  his 
outward  passivity,  were  concealed  in  the  folds  of  his 
enveloping  burnous.  When  the  immediate  wants  of  men 
and  horses  were  assuaged  the  prevailing  clamour  gave 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  251 

place  to  sudden  quiet  as  the  Arabs  lay  down  and,  muffling 
their  heads  in  their  cloaks,  seemed  to  fall  instantly 
asleep.  His  supervision  ended,  Said  reappeared, 
and  following  the  example  of  his  men  was  soon  snoring 
peacefully.  Craven  rolled  over  on  his  side,  and  lighting 
another  cigarette  settled  himself  more  comfortably  on 
the  warm  ground.  For  a  time  he  watched  the  solitary 
sentinel  sitting  motionless  on  his  horse  at  no  great  dis- 
tance from  the  oasis.  Then  a  vulture  winging  its  slow 
heavy  way  across  the  heavens  claimed  his  attention  and 
he  followed  it  with  his  eyes  until  it  passed  beyond  his 
vision.  He  was  too  lazy  and  too  comfortable  to  turn 
his  head.  He  lay  listening  to  the  shrill  hum  of  countless 
insect  life,  smoking  cigarette  after  cigarette  till  the 
ground  around  him  was  littered  with  stubs  and  match 
ends.  The  hours  passed  slowly.  When  he  looked  at  the 
guard  again  the  Arab  was  varying  the  monotony  by 
walking  his  horse  to  and  fro,  but  he  had  not  moved 
further  into  the  desert.  And  suddenly  as  Craven 
watched  him  he  wheeled  and  galloped  back  toward  the 
camp.  Craven  started  up  on  his  arm,  screening  his  eyes 
from  the  sun  and  staring  intently  in  the  direction  of  the 
hills.  But  there  was  nothing  to  be  seen  in  the  wide 
empty  plain,  and  he  sank  down  again  with  a  smile  at 
his  own  impatience  as  the  reason  of  the  man's  return 
occurred  to  him.  Reaching  the  oasis  the  Arab  led  his 
horse  among  the  prostrate  sleepers  and  kicked  a  comrade 
into  wakefulness  to  take  his  place.  From  time  to  time 
the  intense  stillness  was  broken  by  a  movement  among 
the  horses,  and  once  or  twice  a  vicious  scream  came  from 
a  stallion  resenting  the  attentions  of  a  restless  neighbour. 
The  slumbering  Arabs  lay  like  sheeted  figures  of  the 
dead  save  when  some  uneasy  dreamer  rolled  over  with  a 
smothered  grunt  into  a  different  position.  Craven  had 
begun  to  wonder  how  much  longer  the  siesta  would  be 


252  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE 

protracted  when  Omar  rose  stiffly,  and  going  to  his 
brother's  side  awoke  him  with  a  hand  on  his  shoulder. 
Said  sat  up  blinking  sleepily  and  then  leaped  alertly  to 
his  feet.  In  a  few  minutes  the  oasis  was  once  more  filled 
with  noisy  activity.  But  this  time  there  was  no  confusion. 
The  men  mounted  quickly  and  the  troop  was  reformed 
with  the  utmost  dispatch.  The  horses  broke  almost 
immediately  into  the  long  swinging  gallop  that  seemed 
to  eat  up  the  miles  under  their  feet. 

The  fiercest  heat  of  the  day  was  passed.    The  haze 
that  had  hung  shimmering  over  the  plain  had  cleared 
away  and  the  hills  they  were  steadily  nearing  grew  more 
clearly  defined.     Soon  the   conformation   of   the   range 
was  easily  discernible,  the  rocky  surface  breaking  up  into 
innumerable  gullies  and  ravines,  the  jagged  ridges  stand- 
ing out  clean  against  the  deep  blue  of  the  sky.    Another 
mile  and  Said  turned  to  him  with  outstretched  hand, 
pointing  eagerly.     "See,   to   the   right,   there,   by  that 
shaft  of  rock  that  looks  like  a  minaret,  is  the  entrance 
to  the  defile.    It  is  well  masked.    It  comes  upon  one 
suddenly.     A  stranger  would  hardly  find  the   opening 
until  he  was  close  upon  it.     In  the   dawn  when  the 
shadows  are  black  I  have  ridden  past  it  myself  once  or 
twice  and  had  to  —  Allah!  Selim  —  and  alone!"  he  cried 
suddenly,  and  shot  ahead  of  his  companions.    The  troop 
halted  at  Omar's  shouted  command,  but  Craven  galloped 
after  his  friend.    He  had  caught  sight  of  the  horseman 
emerging  from  the  pass  a  moment  after  Said  had  seen 
him  and  the  same  thought  had  leaped  to  the  mind  of 
each  —  the  news  on  which  so  much  depended  might  still 
never   reach    them.     The    spy   came   on   toward   them 
slowly,  his  horse  reeling  under  him,  and  man  and  beast 
alike  were  nearly  shot  to  pieces.    As  Said  drew  along- 
side of  them  the  wounded  horse  collapsed  and  the  dying 
man  fell  with  him,  unable  to  extricate  himself.    In  a 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  253 

flash  the  Arab  Chief  was  on  his  feet,  and  with  a  tre- 
mendous effort  pulled  the  dead  animal  clear  of  his 
follower's  crushed  and  quivering  limbs.  Slipping  an  arm 
about  him  he  raised  him  gently,  and  bending  low  to 
catch  the  faint  words  he  could  scarcely  hear,  held  him 
until  the  fluttering  whisper  trailed  into  silence,  and  with 
a  convulsive  shudder  the  man  died  in  his  arms. 

Laying  the  corpse  back  on  the  sand  he  wiped  his 
blood-stained  hands  on  the  folds  of  his  cloak,  then  swung 
into  the  saddle  again  and  turned  to  Craven,  his  eyes 
blazing  with  anger  and  excitement.  "They  were 
trapped  in  the  defile  —  ten  against  two  —  but  Selim  got 
through  somehow  to  make  his  reconnaisance,  and  they 
finished  him  off  on  the  way  back  —  though  I  don't  think 
he  left  many  behind  him!  Either  our  plans  have  been 
betrayed  —  or  it  may  be  merely  a  coincidence.  Which- 
ever it  is  they  are  waiting  for  us  yonder,  on  the  other 
side  of  the  hills.  They  have  saved  us  a  day's  journey  — 
at  the  very  least, "  he  added  with  a  short  laugh  that  was 
full  of  eager  anticipation. 

They  waited  until  Omar  and  the  troop  joined  them, 
and  after  a  short  consultation  with  the  headmen  it  was 
.  decided  to  press  forward  without  delay.  Aware  that  but 
few  hours  of  daylight  remained,  Craven  deemed  it  a  fool- 
hardy decision,  but  Omar  was  deeply  stirred  at  the  near- 
ness of  the  man  who  had  wronged  him  —  for  Selim  had 
managed  to  extract  that  information  from  one  of  his 
opponents  before  killing  him  —  and  the  tribesmen  were 
eager  for  immediate  action.  The  horses,  too,  were  fresh 
enough,  thanks  to  the  mid-day  rest.  The  troop  moved 
on  again,  a  guard  of  fifty  picked  men  slightly  in  advance 
of  the  main  body. 

At  the  foot  of  the  hills  they  drew  rein  to  reform  for  the 
defile  only  admitted  of  three  horses  walking  abreast,  and 
as  Craven  waited  for  his  own  turn  to  come  to  enter  the 


254  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

narrow  pass  he  looked  curiously  at  the  bare  rock  face 
that  rose  almost  perpendicularly  out  of  the  sand  and 
towered  starkly  above  him.  But  he  had  no  time  for  a 
lengthy  inspection,  and  in  a  few  minutes,  with  Omar 
and  Said  on  either  hand,  he  guided  his  horse  round  the 
jutting  spur  of  rock  that  masked  the  opening  and  rode 
into  the  sombre  shade  of  the  defile.  The  change  was 
startling,  and  he  shivered  with  the  sudden  chill  that 
seemed  so  much  cooler  by  contrast  with  the  heat  of  the 
plain.  Hemmed  in  by  sheer  sinister  looking  cliffs,  which 
were  broken  at  intervals  by  lateral  ravines,  the  tor- 
tuous track  led  over  rough  slippery  ground  sprinkled 
with  huge  boulders  that  made  any  pace  beyond  a  walk 
impossible.  The  horses  stumbled  continually  and  the 
necessity  of  keeping  a  sharp  look-out  for  each  succeeding 
obstacle  drove  from  Craven's  mind  everything  but  the 
matter  in  hand.  He  forgot  to  wonder  how  near  or  how 
far  from  the  other  side  of  the  hills  lay  the  oposing  force, 
or  whether  they  would  have  time  to  reform  before  being 
attacked  or  be  picked  off  by  waiting  marksmen  as  they 
emerged  from  the  pass  without  any  possibility  of  putting 
up  a  fight.  For  himself  it  didn't  after  all  very  much 
matter  one  way  or  the  other,  but  it  would  be  hard  luck, 
he  reflected,  if  Omar  did  not  get  a  chance  at  the  renegado 
and  Said  was  shot  before  the  encounter  he  was  aching 
for  —  and  broke  off  to  swear  at  his  horse,  which  had 
stumbled  badly  for  the  sixth  time. 

Omar  was  riding  a  pace  or  two  in  advance,  bending 
forward  in  the  saddle  and  occasionally  swaying  as  if  from 
weakness,  his  burning  eyes  filled  with  an  almost  mysti- 
cal h'ght  as  if  he  saw  some  vision  that,  hidden  from  the 
others,  was  revealed  to  him  alone.  The  dark  stain  on 
his  robe  had  spread  beyond  concealment  and  he  had  not 
spoken  since  they  entered  the  defile.  To  Craven,  who 
had  never  before  traversed  it,  the  pass  was  baffling.  He 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  £55 

did  not  know  its  extent  and  he  had  no  idea  of  the  depth 
of  the  hills.  But  soon  a  growing  excitement  on  the  part 
of  Said  made  him  aware  that  the  exit  must  be  near  and 
the  continued  silence  argued  that  the  vanguard  had  got 
through  unmolested.  He  slipped  the  button  of  his 
holster  and  freed  his  revolver  from  the  silk  handkerchief 
in  which  Yoshio  had  wrapped  it. 

A  sharp  turn  to  the  right  revealed  the  scene  of  the 
ambuscade,  where  in  one  of  the  lateral  openings  Selim 
and  his  companion  had  been  trapped.  The  bodies  of 
men  and  horses  had  been  pulled  clear  of  the  track  by  the 
advance  guard  as  they  went  by  a  few  minutes  earlier. 
The  old  sheik's  horse  showed  the  utmost  repugnance  to 
the  grim  pile  of  corpses,  snorting  and  rearing  danger- 
ously, and  Craven  wrestled  with  him  for  some  moments 
before  he  bounded  suddenly  past  them  with  a  clatter  of 
hoofs  that  sent  the  loose  stones  flying  in  all  directions. 

Another  turn  to  the  right,  an  equally  sharp  bend  to 
the  left,  where  the  track  widened  considerably,  and  they 
debouched  abruptly  into  open  desert. 

The  vanguard  was  drawn  up  hi  order  and  their  leader 
spurred  to  Omar's  side  in  eager  haste  to  communicate 
what  was  patent  to  the  eyes  of  all.  A  little  ripple  of 
excitement  went  through  Craven  as  he  saw  the  dense 
body  of  horsemen,  still  about  two  miles  away,  who  were 
galloping  steadily  towards  them.  It  had  come  then. 
With  a  curious  smile  he  bent  forward  and  patted  the 
neck  of  his  fretting  horse,  which  was  fidgeting  badly.  The 
opposing  force  appeared  to  outnumber  them  consider- 
ably, but  he  knew  from  Said  that  Mukair  Ibn  Zarrarah's 
men  were  better  equipped  and  better  trained.  It  would 
be  skill  against  brute  force,  though  it  yet  remained  to 
be  seen  how  far  Omar's  men  would  respond  to  their 
training  when  put  to  the  test.  Would  they  be  able  to 
control  their  own  headstrong  inclinations  or  would  their 


256  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

zeal  carry  them  away  in  defiance  of  carefully  rehearsed 
orders? 

Word  of  the  near  presence  of  the  enemy  had  been  sent 
back  to  those  who  were  still  moving  up  the  pass,  and  so 
far  discipline  was  holding  good.  The  men  were  pouring 
out  from  the  yawning  mouth  of  the  file  in  a  steady  stream, 
the  horses  crowded  together  as  closely  as  possible,  and 
as  each  detachment  arrived  it  reformed  smartly  under 
its  own  headman. 

Watching  the  rapid  approach  of  the  hostile  tribe, 
Craven  wondered  whether  there  would  be  time  for  their 
own  force  to  reassemble  to  enable  them  to  carry  out  the 
agreed  tactics. 

Already  they  were  within  half  a  mile.  He  had  reined 
back  to  speak  to  Omar,  when  a  shout  of  exultation  from 
Said,  taken  up  by  his  followers  till  the  rocks  above  them 
echoed  with  the  ringing  cry,  heralded  the  arrival  of  the 
last  party.  There  was  no  time  to  recapitulate  orders  or 
to  urge  steadiness  among  the  men.  With  almost  no  sign 
from  Omar,  or  so  it  seemed  to  Craven,  with  another 
deafening  shout  that  drowned  the  yelling  of  the  enemy 
the  whole  force  leaped  forward  simultaneously.  Craven's 
teeth  clenched  on  his  lip  in  sudden  fear  for  Omar's  plan 
of  attack,  but  a  quick  glance  assured  him  that  the  madly 
galloping  horses  were  being  kept  in  good  formation,  and 
that  fast  as  was  the  pace  the  right  and  left  wing  were, 
according  to  instructions,  steadily  opening  out  and  draw- 
ing forward  in  an  extended  line.  The  feeling  of  excite- 
ment had  left  him,  and,  revolver  hi  hand,  he  sat  down 
firmer  in  the  saddle  with  no  more  emotion  than  if  he 
were  in  the  hunting  field  at  home. 

They  were  now  close  enough  to  distinguish  faces  —  it 
would  be  an  almighty  crash  when  it  did  come!  It  waa 
surprising  that  up  till  now  there  had  been  no  shooting. 
Accustomed  to  the  Arabs'  usually  reckless  expenditure 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST          257 

of  ammunition  he  had  been  prepared  minutes  ago  for  a 
hail  of  bullets.  And  with  the  thought  came  a  solitary 
whining  scream  past  his  ear,  and  Said,  close  on  his  left, 
flung  him  a  look  of  reproach  and  shouted  something  of 
which  he  only  caught  the  words,"  Frenchman  . 
burnous. " 

But  there  was  no  time  left  to  reply.  Following 
rapidly  on  the  single  shot  a  volley  was  poured  in  among 
them,  but  the  shooting  was  inaccurate  and  did  very 
little  damage.  That  it  had  been  intended  to  break  the 
charge  and  cause  confusion  in  the  orderly  ranks  was 
apparent  from  the  further  repeated  volleys  that,  nearer, 
did  more  deadly  execution  than  the  first  one.  But, 
bending  low  in  their  saddles,  Mukair  Ibn  Zarrarah's  men 
swept  on  in  obedience  to  Omar's  command.  His  pur- 
pose was,  by  the  sheer  strength  of  his  onset,  to  cut  through 
the  opposing  force  with  his  centre  while  the  wings  closed 
in  on  either  side.  To  effect  this  he  had  bidden  his 
men  ride  as  they  had  never  ridden  before  and  reserve 
their  fire  till  the  last  moment,  when  it  would  be 
most  effectual.  And  the  swift  silent  onslaught  seemed 
to  be  other  than  the  enemy  had  expected,  for  there  were 
among  them  signs  of  hesitation,  their  advance  was 
checked,  and  the  firing  became  wilder  and  more  erratic. 
Omar  and  his  immediate  companions  appeared  to  bear 
charmed  lives,  bullets  sang  past  them,  over  and  around 
them,  and  though  here  and  there  a  man  fell  from  the 
saddle  or  a  horse  dropped  suddenly,  the  main  body 
raced  on  unscathed,  or  with  wounds  they  did  not  heed  in 
the  frenzy  of  the  moment. 

The  pace  was  terrific,  and  when  at  last  Omar  gave  the 
signal  for  which  his  men  were  waiting,  the  crackling 
reverberation  of  their  rules  had  not  died  away  when  the 
impact  came.  But  the  shattering  crash  that  Craven  had 
expected  did  not  occur.  Giving  ^way  before  them  and 


<U8  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

scattering  to  right  and  left  a  break  came  in  the  ranks  of 
the   opposing   force,    through   which   they  drove  like  a 
living  wedge.    Then  with  fierce  yells  of  execration  the 
enemy  rallied  and  the  next  moment  Craven  found  him- 
self in  the  midst  of  a  confused  melee  where  friends  and 
foes  were  almost  indistinguishable.    The  thundering  of 
horses'  hoofs,   the  raucous  shouting  of  the  Arabs,  the 
rattle  of  musketry,  combined  in  deafening  uproar.    The 
air  was  dense  with  clouds  of  sand  and  smoke,  heavy 
with  the  reek  of  powder.    He  had  lost  sight  of  Omar, 
he  tried  to  keep  near  to  Said,  but  in  the  throng  of  struggling 
men  he  was  carried  away,  cut  off  from  his  own  party, 
hemmed    in    on    every    side,    fighting    alone.     He    had 
forgotten   his    desire   for   death,    his   heart   was   leaping 
with  a  kind  of  delirious  happiness  that  found  nothing 
but  fierce  enjoyment   in   the   scene   around  him.     The 
stench  in  his  nostrils  of  blood  and  sulphur  seemed  to 
awaken   memories   of   another   existence   when   he   had 
fought  for  his  life  as  he  was  doing  now,  unafraid,  and 
caring  little  for  the  outcome.    He  was  shooting  steadily, 
exulting  in   his   markmanship   with   no   thought   in  his 
mind  but  the  passionate  wish  to  kill  and  kill,  and  he 
laughed  with  almost  horrible  pleasure  as  he  emptied  his 
revolver    at    the    raving    Arabs    who    surrounded    him. 
Drunk  with  the  blood  lust  of  an  unremembered  past  for 
the  moment  he  was  only  a  savage  like  them.   And  to  the 
superstitious  desert  men  he  seemed  possessed,  and  with 
sudden  awe  they  had  begun  to  draw  away  from  him 
when  a  further  party   galloped   up  to  reinforce  them. 
Craven  swung  his  horse  to  meet  the  newcomers  and  at 
the  same  moment  realised  that  he  had  no  cartridges  left. 
With  another  reckless  laugh  he  dashed  his  empty  revolver 
in  the  face  of  the  nearest  Arab  and,  wheeling,  spurred 
forward  in  an  attempt  to  break  through  the  circle  round 
him.    But  he  found  retreat  cut  off.    Three  mea  bore 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  250 

down  upon  him  simultaneously  with  levelled  rifles. 
He  saw  them  fire,  felt  a  sharp  searing  as  of  a  red  hot  wire 
through  his  side,  and,  reeling  in  the  saddle,  heard  dimly 
their  howl  of  triumph  as  they  raced  toward  him  —  heard 
also  another  yell  that  rose  above  the  Arabs'  clamour, 
a  piercing  yell  that  sounded  strangely  different  to  the 
Arabic  intonation  ringing  in  his  ears.  And  as  he  gripped 
himself  and  raised  his  head  he  had  a  vision  of  another 
horseman  mounted  on  a  frenzied  trampling  roan  that, 
apparently  out  of  control  and  mad  with  excitement,  was 
charging  down  upon  them,  a  horseman  whose  fluttering 
close-drawn  headgear  shaded  features  that  were  curiously 
Mongolian  —  and  then  he  went  down  in  a  welter  of  men 
and  horses.  A  flying  hoof  touched  the  back  of  his  head 
and  consciousness  ceased. 


CHAPTER    IX 

RAVEN  woke  to  a  burning  pain  in  his  side,  a  rack- 
ing  headache  and  an  intolerable  thirst.  It  was 
not  a  sudden  waking  but  a  gradual  dawning  conscious- 
ness in  which  time  and  place  as  yet  meant  nothing,  and 
only  bodily  suffering  obtruded  on  a  still  partially  clouded 
mind.  Fragmentary  waves  of  thought,  disconnected 
and  transitory,  passed  through  his  brain,  leaving  no  per- 
manent impression,  and  he  made  no  effort  to  unravel 
them.  Effort  of  any  kind,  mental  or  physical,  seemed 
for  the  moment  beyond  him.  He  was  too  tired  even  to 
open  his  eyes,  and  lay  with  them  closed,  wondering 
feebly  at  the  pain  and  discomfort  of  his  whole  body. 
He  had  the  sensation  of  having  been  battered,  he  felt 
bruised  from  head  to  foot.  Suffering  was  new  to  him. 
He  had  never  been  ill  in  his  life,  and  in  all  his  years  of 
travel  and  hazardous  adventure  he  had  sustained  only 
trivial  injuries  which  had  healed  readily  and  been  regarded 
as  merely  part  of  the  day's  work. 

But  now,  as  his  mind  grew  clearer,  he  realised  that 
some  accident  must  have  occurred  to  induce  this  pain 
and  lassitude  that  made  him  lie  like  a  log  with  throbbing 
head  and  powerless  limbs.  He  pondered  it,  trying  to 
pierce  the  fog  that  dulled  his  intellect.  He  had  a  sub- 
conscious impression  of  some  strenuous  adventure 
through  which  he  had  passed,  but  knowledge  still 
hovered  on  the  borderland  of  fancy  and  actuality.  He 
had  no  recollection  of  the  fight  or  of  events  preceding 
it.  That  he  was  Barry  Craven  he  knew;  but  of  where  he 

260 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  261 

had  no  idea  —  nor  what  his  life  had  been.  Of  his  per- 
sonality there  remained  only  his  name,  he  was  quite  sure 
about  that.  And  out  of  the  past  emerged  only  one  clear 
memory  —  a  woman's  face.  And  yet  as  he  dwelt  on  it 
the  image  of  another  woman's  face  rose  beside  it, 
mingling  with  and  absorbing  it  until  the  two  faces  seemed 
strangely  merged  the  one  into  the  other,  alike  and  yet 
wholly  different.  And  the  effort  to  disentangle  them  and 
keep  them  separate  was  greater  than  his  tired  brain 
could  achieve,  and  made  his  head  ache  more  violently. 
Confused,  and  with  a  sudden  feeling  of  aversion,  he 
stirred  impatiently,  and  the  sharp  pain  that  shot  through 
him  brought  him  abruptly  to  a  sense  of  his  physical  state 
and  forced  utterance  of  his  greatest  need.  It  had  not 
hitherto  occurred  to  him  to  wonder  whether  he  were 
alone,  or  even  where  he  was.  But  as  he  spoke  an  arm 
was  slipped  under  him  raising  him  slightly  and  a  cup  held 
to  his  lips.  He  drank  eagerly  and,  as  he  was  again 
lowered  gently  to  the  pillow,  raised  his  eyes  to  the  face 
of  the  man  who  bent  over  him,  a  puckered  yellow  face 
whose  imperturbability  for  once  had  given  place  to 
patent  anxiety.  Craven  stared  at  it  for  a  few  moments 
in  perplexity.  Where  had  he  seen  it  before?  Struggling 
to  recall  what  had  happened  prior  to  this  curiously 
obscured  awakening  there  dawned  a  dim  recollection  of 
shattering  noise  and  tumult,  of  blood  and  death  and 
fierce  unbridled  human  passion,  of  a  horde  of  wild-eyed 
dark-skinned  men  who  surged  and  struggled  round  him  — 
and  of  a  yelling  Arab  on  a  fiery  roan.  Memory  came  in 
a  flash.  He  gave  a  weak  little  croaking  laugh.  "You 
damned  insubordinate  little  devil,"  he  murmured,  and 
drifted  once  more  into  unconsciousness.  When  he  woke 
again  it  was  with  complete  remembrance  of  everything 
that  had  passed.  He  felt  ridiculously  weak,  but  his  head 
did  not  ache  so  badly  and  his  mind  was  perfectly  clear 


262  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE   EAST 

Only  of  the  time  that  had  elapsed  between  the  moment 
when  he  had  gone  down  under  the  Arabs'  charge  and  his 
awakening  a  little  while  ago  he  had  no  recollection. 
How  long  had  he  been  unconscious?  He  found  himself 
mildly  puzzled,  but  without  any  great  interest  as  yet. 
Plenty  of  time  to  find  out  about  that  and  what  had 
befallen  Omar  and  Said.  It  was  not  that  he  did  not  care, 
but  that,  for  the  moment,  he  was  too  tired  and  listless 
to  do  more  than  lie  still  and  endure  his  own  discomfort. 
His  side  throbbed  painfully  and  there  was  something 
curious  about  his  left  arm,  a  dead  feeling  of  numbness 
that  made  him  wonder  whether  it  was  there  at  all.  He 
glanced  down  at  it  with  sudden  apprehension  —  he  had 
no  fancy  for  a  maimed  existence  —  and  was  relieved  to 
find  it  still  in  place  but  bent  stiffly  across  his  chest 
wrapped  in  a  multitude  of  bandages  —  broken,  pre- 
sumably. His  eyes  wandered  with  growing  interest 
round  the  little  tent  where  he  lay.  It  was  his  own,  from 
which  he  inferred  that  the  fight  must  have  gone  in  favour 
of  Mukair  Ibn  Zarrarah's  forces  or  he  would  never  have 
been  brought  back  here  to  it.  He  glanced  from  one 
familiar  object  to  another  with  a  drowsy  feeling  of  con- 
tentment. 

Presently  he  became  aware  that  somebody  had  entered 
and  turning  his  head  he  found  Yoshio  beside  him  eye- 
ing him  with  a  look  in  which  solicitude,  satisfaction,  and 
a  faint  diffidence  struggled  for  supremacy.  Craven 
guessed  the  reason  of  his  embarrassment,  but  he  had  no 
mind  to  refer  to  an  order  given,  and  disobeyed  through 
overzealousness.  That,  too,  could  wait  —  or  be  forgotten. 
He  contented  himself  with  a  single  question.  "How 
long?"  he  asked  laconically.  With  equal  brevity  the 
Jap  replied :  "  Two  days, "  and  postponed  further  inquiries 
by  slipping  a  clinical  thermometer  into  his  master's 
mouth.  He  had  always  been  useful  hi  attending  on 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  263 

minor  camp  accidents,  and  during  the  last  two  years 
in  Central  Africa  he  had  picked  up  a  certain  amount  of 
rough  surgical  knowledge  which  now  stood  him  in  good 
stead,  and  which  he  proceeded  to  put  into  practice  with  a 
gravity  of  demeanour  that  made  Craven,  in  his  weakened 
state,  want  to  giggle  hysterically.  But  he  suppressed 
the  inclination  and  held  on  to  the  thermometer  until 
Yoshio  solemnly  removed  it,  studied  it  intently,  and 
nodded  approval.  With  the  exact  attention  to  detail 
that  was  his  ruling  passion  he  carefully  rinsed  the  tiny 
glass  instrument  and  returned  it  to  its  case  before  leaving 
the  tent.  He  was  back  again  in  a  few  minutes  with  a 
bowl  of  steaming  soup,  and  handling  Craven  as  if  he 
were  a  child,  fed  him  with  the  gentleness  of  a  woman. 
Then  he  busied  himself  about  the  room,  tidying  it  and 
reducing  its  confusion  to  order. 

Craven  watched  him  at  first  idly  and  then  with  a  more 
definite  desire  to  know  what  had  occurred.  But  to  the 
questions  he  put  Yoshio  returned  evasive  answers,  and, 
resuming  his  professional  manner,  spoke  gravely  of  the 
loss  of  blood  Craven  had  sustained,  of  the  kick  on  the 
head  from  which  he  had  lain  two  days  insensible,  and 
his  consequent  need  of  rest  and  sleep,  finally  departing 
as  if  to  remove  temptation  from  him.  Craven  chafed  at 
the  little  Jap's  caution  and  swore  at  his  obstinacy,  but  a 
pleasant  drowsiness  was  stealing  over  him  and  he  sur- 
rendered to  it  without  further  struggle. 

It  was  more  than  twelve  hours  before  he  opened  his 
eyes  again,  to  find  the  morning  sunlight  streaming  into 
the  tent. 

Yoshio  hovered  about  him,  deft-handed  and  noiseless 
of  tread,  feeding  him  and  redressing  the  wounds  in  his 
side  where  the  bullet  had  entered  and  passed  out.  After 
which  he  relaxed  the  faintly  superior  tone  he  had  adopted 
and  condescended  to  consult  with  his  patient  as  to  which 


264  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

of  the  scanty  drugs  in  the  tiny  medicine  chest  would  be 
the  best  to  administer.  He  was  disappointed  but 
acquiescent  in  Craven's  decision  to  trust  to  his  own  hardy 
constitution  as  long  as  the  wounds  appeared  healthy  and 
leave  nature  to  do  her  own  work.  And  again  recom- 
mending sleep  he  glided  away. 

But  Craven  had  no  desire  or  even  inclination  to  sleep. 
He  was  tremendously  wide  awake,  his  whole  being  in 
revolt,  facing  once  more  the  problem  he  had  thought 
done  with  for  ever.  Again  fate  had  intervened  to  thwart 
his  determination.  For  the  third  time  death,  for  which 
he  longed,  had  been  withheld,  and  life  that  was  so  bitter, 
so  valueless,  restored.  To  what  end?  Why  had  the 
peace  he  craved  for  been  torn  from  him  —  why  had  he 
been  forced  to  begin  again  an  existence  of  hideous 
struggle?  Had  he  not  repented,  suffered  as  few  men 
suffer,  and  striven  to  atone?  What  more  was  required 
of  him,  he  wondered  bitterly.  A  galling  sense  of  impo- 
tence swept  him  and  he  raged  at  his  own  nothingness. 
Self-determination  seemed  to  have  been  taken  from  him 
and  with  fierce  resentment  he  saw  himself  as  merely  a 
pawn  in  the  game  of  life;  a  puppet  to  fulfil,  not  his  own 
will,  but  the  will  of  a  greater  power  than  his.  In  the 
black  despair  that  came  over  him  he  cursed  that  greater 
power  until,  shuddering,  he  realised  his  own  blasphemy, 
and  a  broken  prayer  burst  from  his  lips.  He  had  come 
to  the  end  of  all  things,  he  was  fighting  through  abysmal 
darkness.  His  need  was  overwhelming  —  alone  he  could 
not  go  forward,  and  desperately,  he  turned  to  the  Divine 
Mercy  and  prayed  for  strength  and  guidance. 

Too  weary  in  spirit  to  mark  the  slow  passing  of  the 
hours  he  fought  his  last  fight.  And  gradually  he  grew 
calmer,  calm  enough  to  accept  —  if  not  to  understand  — • 
the  inscrutable  rulings  of  Providence.  He  had  arrogated 
to  himself  the  disposal  of  his  life,  but  it  was  made  clear 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  265 

to  him  that  a  higher  wisdom  had  decreed  otherwise.  He 
did  not  attempt  to  seek  the  purpose  of  his  preservation, 
enough  that  for  some  unfathomable  reason  it  was  once 
more  plainly  indicated  that  there  was  to  be  no  shirking. 
He  had  to  live,  and  to  do  what  was  possible  with  the  life 
left  him.  Gillian!  the  thought  of  her  was  torment.  He 
had  tried  to  free  her,  and  she  was  still  bound.  It  would 
be  part  of  his  punishment  that,  suffering,  he  would  have 
to  watch  her  suffer  too.  With  a  groan  he  flung  his  unin- 
jured arm  across  his  eyes  and  lay  very  still.  The  day 
wore  on.  He  roused  himself  to  take  the  food  that  Yoshio 
brought  at  regular  intervals  but  feigned  a  drowsiness 
he  did  not  feel  to  secure  the  solitude  his  mood  demanded. 
And  Yoshio,  enjoying  to  the  full  his  state  of  tempo- 
rary authority,  sat  outside  the  door  of  the  tent  and  kept 
away  inquirers.  Listlessly  Craven  watched  the  evening 
shadows  deepen  aud  darken.  For  hours  he  had  thought, 
not  of  himself  but  of  the  woman  he  loved,  until  his 
bruised  head  ached  intolerably.  And  all  his  delibera- 
tion had  taken  him  no  further  than  where  he  had  begun. 
He  was  to  take  up  anew  the  difficult  life  he  had  fled  from 
—  for  that  was  what  it  amounted  to.  He  had  deserted 
her  who  had  in  all  the  world  no  one  but  him.  It  had 
an  ugly  sound  and  he  flinched  from  the  naked  truth  of 
it,  but  he  had  done  with  subterfuges  and  evasions.  He 
had  made  her  his  wife  and  he  had  left  her  —  nothing  could 
alter  the  fact  or  mitigate  the  shame.  Past  experience 
had  taught  him  nothing;  once  again  he  had  left  a  woman 
in  her  need  to  fend  for  herself.  She  was  his  wife,  his  to 
shield  and  to  protect,  doubly  so  in  her  equivocal  position 
that  subjected  her  to  much  that  would  not  affect  one 
happily  married.  During  the  few  months  they  had  lived 
at  Craven  Towers  after  their  marriage  she  had  shown  by 
every  means  in  her  power  her  desire  to  be  to  him  the 
comrade  he  had  asked  her  to  be.  And  he  had  repelled 


266  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

her.  He  had  feared  himself  and  the  strength  of  his  reso- 
lution. Now,  as  he  thought  of  it  with  bitter  self-reproach, 
he  realised  how  much  more  he  could  have  done  to  make 
her  life  easier,  to  smooth  the  difficulties  of  their 
relationship.  Instead  he  had  added  to  them,  and  under 
the  strain  he  had  broken  down,  not  she.  The  egoism 
he  had  thought  conquered  had  triumphed  over  him  again 
to  his  undoing.  Crushing  shame  filled  him,  but  regrets 
were  useless.  The  past  was  past  —  what  of  the  future? 
He  was  going  back  to  her.  He  was  to  have  the  torturing 
happiness  of  seeing  her  again  —  but  what  would  his 
re-entry  into  her  life  mean  to  her?  What  had  these  two 
years  of  which  he  knew  nothing  done  for  her?  There 
had  been  an  accumulated  mail  waiting  for  him  at  Lagos. 
She  had  written  regularly  —  but  she  had  told  him  noth- 
ing. Her  short  letters  had  been  filled  with  inquiries  for 
the  mission,  references  to  Peters'  occasional  visits  to 
Paris,  trivialities  of  the  weather  —  stilted  laborious  com- 
munications in  which  he  read  effort  and  constraint.  How 
would  she  receive  him  —  would  she  even  receive  him  at 
all?  It  seemed  incredible  that  she  should.  He  knew 
her  innate  gentleness,  the  selflessness  of  her  disposition, 
but  he  knew  also  that  there  was  a  limit  to  all  things. 
Would  she  not  see  in  his  return  the  reappearance  of  a 
master,  a  jailer  who  would  curb  even  that  small  measure 
of  freedom  that  had  been  hers?  For  bound  to  him  the 
freedom  he  had  promised  her  was  a  mockery.  And  how 
was  he  to  explain  his  prolonged  absence?  She  could  not 
have  failed  to  see  some  mention  of  the  return  of  the 
medical  mission,  to  have  wondered  why  he  still  lingered 
in  Africa.  The  letter  he  had  written  and  entrusted  to 
Yoshio  could  never  now  be  delivered.  She  must  not 
learn  what  he  had  meant  her  to  know  only  after  his 
death.  He  could  not  explain,  he  must  leave  her  to  put 
whatever  interpretation  she  would  upon  it.  And  wha* 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  267 

but  the  most  obvious  could  she  put?  He  writhed  in 
sudden  agony  of  mind,  and  the  physical  pain  the  abrupt 
movement  caused  was  easiei  to  bear  than  the  thought  of 
her  scorn.  It  was  all  so  hopetess,  so  complicated.  He 
turned  from  it  with  a  weary  sigh  and  fell  to  dreaming  of 
the  woman  herself. 

The  tent  had  grown  quite  dark.  Outside  the  camp 
noises  were  dying  away.  The  sound  of  subdued  voices 
reached  him  occasionally,  and  once  or  twice  he  heard 
Yoshio  speak  to  some  passer  by. 

Then,  not  far  away,  the  mournful  chant  of  a  singer 
rose  clearly  out  of  the  evening  stillness,  penetrating  and 
yet  curiously  soft  —  a  plaintive  little  desert  air  of  haunt- 
ing melancholy,  vibrant  with  passion.  It  stopped 
abruptly  as  it  had  begun  and  Craven  was  glad  when  it 
ended.  It  chimed  too  intimately  with  his  own  sad 
thoughts  and  longings.  He  was  relieved  when  Yoshio 
came  presently  to  light  the  lamp  and  attend  to  his  wants. 
The  Jap  chatted  with  unusual  animation  as  he  went 
about  his  duties  and  Craven  let  him  talk  uninterrupted. 
The  functions  of  nurse  and  valet  were  quickly  carried 
through  and  in  a  short  time  preparations  for  the  night 
were  finished  and  Yoshio,  wrapped  in  a  blanket,  asleep 
at  the  foot  of  Craven's  bed.  He  had  scarcely  closed  his 
eyes  since  the  day  before  the  punitive  force  set  out,  but 
tonight,  conscious  that  his  vigilance  might  be  relaxed* 
he  slept  heavily. 

Craven  himself  could  not  sleep.  He  lay  listening  to 
his  servant's  even  breathing,  looking  at  the  tiny  flame  of 
the  little  lamp,  which  was  small  enough  not  to  add  to 
the  heat  of  the  tent  and  too  weak  to  illuminate  it  more 
than  partially,  thinking  deeply.  He  strove  to  stem  the 
current  of  his  thoughts,  to  keep  his  mind  a  blank,  or  to 
concentrate  on  trivialities  —  he  followed  with  exaggerated 
interest  the  swift  erratic  course  of  a  bat  that  had  flown 


*68  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

in  through  the  open  door  flap,  counted  the  familiar 
objects  around  him  showing  dimly  in  the  flickering  light, 
counted  innumerable  sheep  passing  through  the  tra- 
ditional gate,  counted  the  seconds  represented  in  the 
periodical  silences  that  punctuated  a  cicada's  monotonous 
shrilling.  But  always  he  found  himself  harking  back  to 
the  problem  of  the  future  that  he  could  not  banish  from 
his  mind.  His  mental  distress  reacted  on  his  body.  He 
grew  restless,  but  every  movement  was  still  attended  by 
pain  and  he  compelled  himself  to  lie  still,  though  his 
limbs  twitched  almost  uncontrollably.  He  was  infinitely 
weary  of  the  forced  posture  that  was  not  habitual  with 
him,  infinitely  weary  of  himself. 

The  moon  rose  late,  but  when  it  came  its  clear  white 
light  filled  the  tent  with  a  cold  brilliance  that  killed  the 
feeble  efforts  of  the  little  lamp  and  intensified  the  shadows 
where  its  rays  did  not  penetrate.  Craven  looked  at 
the  silvery  beam  streaming  across  the  room,  and  quite 
suddenly  he  thought  of  the  moonlight  in  Japan  —  the 
moonlight  filtering  through  the  tall  dark  fir  trees  in  the 
garden  of  enchantment;  he  heard  the  night  wind  sighing 
softly  round  the  tiny  screen-built  house;  the  air  became 
heavy  with  the  cloying  smell  of  pines  and  languorous 
scented  flowers,  redolent  with  the  well-remembered 
dreaded  fragrance  of  the  perfume  she  had  used.  Bathed 
in  perspiration,  shuddering  with  terrible  prescience,  he 
stared  wild-eyed  at  the  moonlit  strip  where  a  nebulous 
form  was  rising  and  gathering  into  definite  shape.  An 
icy  chill  ran  through  him.  Suffocated  with  the  rapid 
pounding  of  his  heart,  sick  with  horror  at  the  impending 
vision  he  knew  to  be  inevitable,  he  watched  the  shadowy 
figure  slowly  substantiate  into  the  semblance  of  a  living, 
breathing  body.  Not  intangible  as  she  had  always 
appeared  before,  but  material  as  she  had  been  in  life, 
she  stood  erect  in  the  brilliant  pathway  of  light,  facing 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  269 

him.    He  could  see  the  outline  of  her  slender  limbs, 
solid  against  the  shimmering  background;  he  could  mark 
the  rise  and  fall  of  the  bosom  on  which  her  delicate  hands 
lay  clasped;  he  recognised  the  very  obi  that  she  wore  — 
his  last  gift,  sent  from  Tokio  during  his  three  weeks* 
absence.    The  little  oval  face  was  placid  and  serene,  but 
he  waited,  with  fearful  apprehension,  for  the  fast  closed 
eyes  to  open  and  reveal  the  agony  he  knew  that  he  would 
see  in  them.   He  prayed  that  they  might  open  soon,  that 
his  torture  might  be  brief,  but  the  terrible  reality  of  her 
presence  seemed  to  paralyse  him.    He  could  not  turn 
his  eyes  away,  could  not  move  a  muscle  of  his  throbbing, 
shivering  body.     She  seemed  to   sway,   gently,   almost 
imperceptibly,  from  side  to  side  —  as  though  she  waited 
for  some  sign  or  impellent  force  to  guide  her.   Then  with 
horrible  dread  he  became  aware  that  she  was  coming 
slowly,  glidingly,  toward  him  and    the    spell   that    had 
kept  him  motionless  broke  and  he  shrank  back  among 
the  pillows,  his  sound  hand  clenched  upon  the  covering 
over  him,  his  parched  lips  moving  in  dumb  supplication. 
Nearer  she  came  and  nearer  till  at  last  she  stood  beside 
him   and   he   wondered,   in   the   freezing   coldness   that 
settled  round  his  heart,  did  her  coming  presage  death  — 
had  her  soul  been  sent  to  claim  his  that  had  brought 
upon  her  such  fearful  destruction?    A  muffled  cry  that 
was  scarcely  human  broke  from  him,  his  eyes  dilated  and 
the  clammy  sweat  poured  down  his  face  as  she  bent 
toward  him  and  he  saw  the  dusky  lashes  tremble  on  her 
dead  white  cheek  and  knew  that  in  a  second  the  anguished 
eyes  would  open  to  him  in  all  their  accusing  awful- 
ness.     The    bed    shook    with    the    spasm    that    passed 
through  him.     Slowly  the  heavy  lids  were  raised  and 
Craven  looked  once  more  into  the  misty  depths  of  the 
great  grey  eyes  that  were  the  facsimile  of  his  own.   Then 
a  tearing  sob  of  wonderful  and  almost  unbelievable  relief 


270  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

escaped  him,  for  the  agony  he  dreaded  was  not  visible  — 
the  face  so  close  to  his  was  the  face  of  the  happy  girl 
who  had  loved  him  before  the  knowledge  of  despair  had 
touched  her,  the  tender  luminous  eyes  fixed  on  him 
were  alight  with  trust  and  adoration.  Lower  and  lower 
she  bent  and  he  saw  the  parted  lips  curve  in  a  smile  of 
exquisite  welcome  —  or  was  it  farewell?  For  as  he  waited, 
scarcely  breathing  and  tense  with  a  new  wild  hope,  the 
definite  outline  of  her  figure  seemed  to  fade  and  tremble; 
a  cold  breath  like  the  impress  of  a  ghostly  kiss  lay  for 
an  instant  on  his  forehead,  he  seemed  to  hear  the  faint 
thin  echo  of  a  whispered  word  —  and  she  was  gone.  Had 
she  ever  been  at  all?  Exhausted,  he  had  no  strength  to 
probe  what  had  passed,  he  was  only  conscious  of  a  firm 
conviction  that  he  would  never  see  again  the  dreaded 
vision  that  had  haunted  him.  His  rigid  limbs  relaxed, 
and  with  a  gasping  prayer  of  unutterable  thankfulness 
he  turned  his  face  to  the  darkness  and  broke  down  com- 
pletely, crying  like  a  child,  burying  his  head  in  the  pillow 
lest  Yoshio  should  be  awakened  by  the  sound  of  his  ter- 
rible sobs.  And,  presently,  worn  out,  he  fell  asleep. 

It  was  nearly  mid-day  when  he  woke  again,  in  less  pain 
and  feeling  stronger  than  the  day  before. 

The  vision  of  the  previous  night  was  vivid  in  his  recol- 
lection, but  he  would  not  let  himself  ponder  it.  It  was 
to  him.  a  message  from  the  dead,  an  almost  sacred  sign 
that  the  spirit  of  the  woman  he  had  wronged  was  at  rest 
and  had  vouchsafed  the  forgiveness  for  which  he  had 
never  hoped.  He  would  rather  have  it  so.  He  shrank 
from  brutally  dissecting  impressions  that  might  after  all 
be  only  the  result  of  remorse  working  on  a  fevered  imag- 
ination. The  peace  that  had  come  to  him  was  too  precious 
to  be  lightly  let  go.  She  had  forgiven  him  though  he 
could  never  forgive  himself. 

But  despite  the  tranquillizing  sense  of  pardon  he  felt 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  271 

he  knew  that  the  penalty  of  his  fault  was  not  yet  paid, 
that  it  would  never  be  paid.  The  tragic  memory  of  little 
O  Hara  San  still  rose  between  him  and  happiness.  He 
was  still  bound,  still  trapped  in  the  pit  he  had  himself 
dug.  He  was  unclean,  unfit,  debarred  by  his  sin  from 
following  the  dictates  of  his  heart.  A  deep  sadness  and 
an  overwhelming  sense  of  loss  filled  him  as  he  thought  of 
the  woman  he  had  married.  She  was  his  wife,  he  loved 
her  passionately,  longed  for  her  with  all  the  strength  of 
his  ardent  nature,  but,  sin-stained,  he  dared  not  claim 
her.  In  her  spotless  purity  she  was  beyond  his  desire. 
And  because  of  him  she  must  go  through  life  robbed  of 
her  woman's  heritage.  In  marrying  her  he  had  wronged 
her  irreparably.  He  had  always  known  it,  but  at  the 
time  there  had  seemed  no  other  course  open  to  him. 
Yet  surely  there  must  have  been  some  alternative  if  he 
had  set  himself  seriously  to  find  it.  But  had  he?  Dog- 
gedly he  argued  that  he  had  —  that  personal  consideration 
had  not  swayed  him  in  his  decision.  But  even  as  he 
persisted  in  his  assertion  accusing  conscience  rose  up  and 
stripped  from  him  the  last  shred  of  personal  deception 
that  had  blinded  him,  and  he  acknowledged  to  himself 
that  he  had  married  her  that  she  might  not  become  the 
wife  of  any  other  man.  He  had  been  the  meanest  kind 
of  dog  in  the  manger.  At  the  time  he  had  not  realised 
it  —  he  had  thought  himself  influenced  solely  by  her  need, 
Dot  his.  But  his  selfishness  seemed  very  patent  to  him 
now.  And  what  was  to  be  the  end  of  it?  How  was  he 
ever  to  compensate  for  the  wrong  done  her? 

Yoshio's  entry  put  a  stop  to  introspection  that  was 
both  bitter  and  painful.  And  when  he  left  him  an  hour 
later  Craven  was  in  no  mood  to  resume  speculation  that 
was  futile  and  led  nowhere.  He  had  touched  bedrock  — 
he  could  not  think  worse  of  himself  than  he  did.  The 
less  he  thought  of  himself  the  better.  His  immediate 


272  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

business  seemed  to  be  to  get  well  as  quickly  as  possible 
and  return  to  England  —  beyond  that  he  could  not  see. 
The  sound  of  Said's  voice  outside  was  a  welcome  relief. 
He  appeared  to  be  arguing  with  Yoshio,  who  was 
obstinately  refusing  him  entrance.  Craven  cut  short  the 
discussion. 

"Let  the  Sheik  come  in,  Yoshio!"  he  called,  and 
laughed  at  the  weakness  of  his  own  voice.  But  it  was 
strong  enough  to  carry  as  far  as  the  tent  door,  and,  with 
a  flutter  of  draperies,  the  Arab  Chief  strode  in.  He 
grasped  Craven's  outstretched  hand  and  stood  looking 
down  on  him  for  a  moment  with  a  broad  smile  on  his 
handsome  face.  "Enfin,  mon  brave,  I  thought  I  should 
never  see  you!  Always  you  were  asleep,  or  so  it  was 
reported  to  me,"  he  said  with  a  laugh,  dropping  to  his 
heels  on  the  mat  and  lighting  a  cigarette.  Then  he  gave 
a.  quick  searching  glance  at  the  bandaged  figure  on  the 
.bed  and  laughed  again. 

"You  ought  to  be  dead,  you  know,  would  have  been 
'dead  if  it  hadn't  been  for  that  man  of  yours,"  with  a 
backward  jerk  of  his  head  toward  the  door.  "You  owe 
him  your  life,  my  friend.  You  know  he  came  with  us 
that  night,  borrowed  a  horse  and  the  burnous  you 
wouldn't  wear,  and  kept  out  of  sight  till  the  last  minute. 
He  was  close  behind  you  when  we  charged,  lost  you  in 
the  melee,  and  found  you  again  just  in  the  nick  of  time. 
I  was  cut  off  from  you  myself  for  the  moment,  but  I  saw 
you  wounded,  saw  him  break  a  way  through  to  you  and 
then  saw  you  both  go  down.  I  thought  you  were  done 
for.  It  was  just  then  the  tide  turned  in  our  favour  and 
I  managed  to  reach  you,  with  no  hope  of  finding  you 
aliv«.  I  was  never  more  astonished  in  my  life  than  when 
I  saw  that  little  devil  of  a  Japanese  crawl  out  from  under 
a  heap  of  men  and  horses  dragging  you  after  him.  He 
was  bruised  and  dazed,  he  didn't  know  friend  from  foe, 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  273 

but  he  had  enough  sense  left  to  know  that  you  were  alive 
and  he  meant  to  keep  you  so.  He  laid  you  out  on  the 
sand  and  he  sat  on  you  —  you  can  laugh,  but  it's  true  — 
and  blazed  away  with  his  revolver  at  everybody  who 
came  near,  howling  his  national  war  cry  till  I  wept  with 
laughter.  And  after  it  was  all  over  he  snarled  like  a 
panther  when  I  tried  to  touch  you,  and,  refusing  any 
assistance,  carried  you  back  here  on  the  saddle  in  front 
of  him  —  and  you  were  no  light  weight.  A  man,  by 
Allah!"  he  concluded  enthusiastically.  Craven  smiled 
at  the  Arab's  graphic  description,  but  he  found  it  in  his 
heart  to  wish  that  Yoshio's  zeal  had  not  been  so  forward 
and  so  successful.  But  there  were  other  lives  than  his 
that  had  been  involved. 

"Omar?"  he  asked  anxiously.  The  laughter  died 
abruptly  from  Said's  eyes  and  his  face  grew  grave. 

"Dead,"  he  said  briefly;  "he  did  not  try  to  live. 
Life  held  nothing  for  him  without  Safiya,"  he  added, 
with  an  expressive  shrug  that  was  eloquent  of  his  inability 
to  understand  such  an  attitude. 

"And   she ?" 

"Killed  herself  the  night  she  was  taken.  Her  abduc- 
tor got  no  pleasure  of  her  and  Omar's  honour  was  un- 
smirched  —  though  he  never  knew  it,  poor  devil.  He 
killed  his  man,"  added  Said,  with  a  smile  of  grim  satis- 
faction. "It  made  no  difference,  he  was  renegade,  a 
traitor,  ripe  for  death.  The  Chief  fell  to  my  lot.  It  was 
from  him  I  learned  about  Safiya  —  he  talked  before  he 
died."  The  short  hard  laugh  that  followed  the  meaning 
words  was  pure  Arab.  He  lit  another  cigarette  and  for 
some  time  sat  smoking  silently,  while  Craven  lay  looking 
into  space  trying  not  to  envy  the  dead  man  who  had 
found  the  rest  that  he  himself  had  been  denied. 

To  curb  the  trend  of  his  thoughts  he  turned  again  to 
Said.  Animation  had  vanished  from  the  Arab's  face, 


274  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE   EAST 

and  he  was  staring  gloomily  at  the  strip  of  carpet  on 
which  he  squatted.  His  dejected  bearing  did  not  betoken 
the  conqueror  he  undoubtedly  was.  That  his  brother's 
death  was  a  deep  grief  to  him  Craven  knew  without 
telling,  but  he  guessed  that  something  more  than  regret 
for  Omar  was  at  the  bottom  of  his  depression. 

"It  was  decisive,  I  suppose,"  he  said,  rather  vaguely, 
thinking  of  the  action  of  four  days  ago.  Said  nodded. 
"It  was  a  rout,"  he  said  with  a  hint  of  contempt  in  his 
voice.  "Dogs  who  could  plunder  and  kill  when  no 
resistance  was  offered,  but  when  it  came  to  a  fight  they 
had  no  stomach  for  it.  Yet  they  were  men  once,  and, 
like  fools,  we  thought  they  were  men  still.  They  had 
talked  enough,  bragged  enough,  by  Allah!  and  it  is  true 
there  were  a  few  who  rallied  round  their  Chief.  But  the 
rank  and  file  —  bah ! "  He  spat  his  cigarette  on  to  the 
floor  with  an  air  of  scorn.  "It  promised  well  enough  at 
first,"  he  grumbled.  "I  thought  we  were  going  to  have 
an  opportunity  of  seeing  what  stuff  my  men  were  made 
of.  But  they  had  no  organisation.  After  the  first  half 
hour  we  did  what  we  liked  with  them.  It  was  a  walk 
over,"  he  added  in  English,  about  the  only  words  he 
knew. 

Craven  laughed  at  his  disgusted  tone. 

"And  you,  who  were  spoiling  for  a  fight!  No  luck, 
Sheik." 

Said  looked  up  with  a  grin,  but  it  passed  quickly, 
leaving  his  face  melancholy  as  before.  Craven  made  a 
guess  at  the  trouble. 

"It  will  make  a  difference  to  you  —  Omar's  death,  I 
mean,"  he  suggsted. 

Said  gave  a  little  harsh  laugh. 

"Difference!"  he  echoed  bitterly.  "It  is  the  end 
of  everything,"  and  he  made  a  violent  gesture  with  his 
hands.  "I  must  give  up  my  regiment,"  he  went  on 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  275 

drearily,  "my  comrades,  my  racing  stable  in  France  — 
all  I  care  for  and  that  makes  life  pleasant  to  me.  For 
what?  To  rule  a  tribe  who  have  become  too  powerful 
to  have  enemies;  to  listen  to  interminable  tales  of  theft 
and  disputed  inheritances  and  administer  justice  to 
people  who  swear  by  the  Koran  and  then  lie  in  your 
face;  to  marry  a  wife  and  beget  sons  that  the  tribe  of 
Mukair  Ibn  Zarrarah  may  not  die  out.  Grand  Dieu, 
what  a  life!"  The  tragic  misery  of  his  voice  left  no 
doubt  as  to  his  sincerity.  And  Craven,  who  knew  him, 
was  not  inclined  to  doubt.  The  expedient  that  had  been 
adopted  in  Said's  case  was  justifiable  while  he  remained 
a  younger  son  with  no  immediate  prospect  of  succeeding 
to  the  leadership  of  the  tribe  —  there  had  always  been  the 
hope  that  Omar's  wife  would  eventually  provide  an  heir 
—  but  as  events  had  turned  out  it  had  been  a  mistake, 
totally  unfitting  him  for  the  part  he  was  now  called 
upon  to  play.  His  innate  European  tendencies,  inex- 
plicable both  to  himself  and  to  his  family,  had  been 
developed  and  strengthened  by  association  with  the  French 
officers  among  whom  he  had  been  thrown,  and  who  had 
welcomed  him  primarily  as  the  representative  of  a  power- 
ful desert  tribe  and  then,  very  shortly  afterwards,  for 
himself.  His  personal  charm  had  won  their  affections 
and  he  had  very  easily  become  the  most  popular  native 
officer  in  the  regiment.  Courted  and  feted,  shown  off, 
and  extolled  for  his  liberality  of  mind  and  purse,  his  own 
good  sense  had  alone  prevented  him  from  becoming  com- 
pletely spoiled.  To  the  impecunious  Frenchmen  his 
wealth  was  a  distinct  asset  in  his  favour,  for  racing  was 
the  ruling  passion  in  the  regiment,  and  the  fine  horses 
he  was  able  to  provide  insured  to  them  the  preservation 
of  the  inter-regimental  trophy  that  had  for  some  years 
past  graced  their  mess  table.  He  had  thrown  himself 
into  the  life  whole-heartedly,  becoming  more  and  more 


276  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

influenced  by  western  thought  and  culture,  but  without 
losing  his  own  individuality.  He  had  assimilated  the 
best  of  civilization  without  acquiring  its  vices.  But  the 
experience  was  not  likely  to  conduce  to  his  future  hap- 
piness. Craven  thought  of  the  life  led  by  the  Spahi  in 
Algiers,  and  during  periods  of  leave  in  Paris,  and  con- 
trasted it  with  the  life  that  was  lying  before  him,  a 
changed  and  very  different  existence.  He  foresaw  the 
difficulties  that  would  have  to  be  met,  the  problems  that 
would  arise,  and  above  all  he  understood  Said's  chief 
objection  —  the  marriage  from  which  his  misogynous  sou] 
recoiled.  Like  himself  the  Arab  was  facing  a  crisis  that 
was  momentous.  Two  widely  different  cases  but 
analogous  nevertheless.  While  he  was  working  out  his 
salvation  in  England  Said  would  be  doing  the  same  in 
his  desert  fastness.  The  thought  strengthened  his 
friendship  for  the  despondent  young  Arab.  He  would 
have  given  much  to  be  able  to  help  him  but  his  natural 
reserve  kept  him  silent.  He  had  made  a  sufficient 
failure  of  his  own  life.  He  did  not  feel  himself  com- 
petent to  offer  advice  to  another. 

"It's  a  funny  world,"  he  said  with  a  hah5  sigh, 
"though  I  suppose  it  isn't  the  world  that's  at  fault  but 
the  people  who  live  in  it,"  and  in  his  abstraction  he 
spoke  in  his  own  language. 

"Plait-tt?"  Said's  puzzled  face  recalled  him  to  him- 
self and  he  translated,  adding:  "It's  rotten  luck  for 
you,  Sheik,  but  it's  kismet.  All  things  are  ordained," 
he  concluded  almost  shyly,  feeling  himself  the  worst  kind 
of  Job's  comforter.  The  Arab  shrugged.  "To  those 
who  believe,"  he  repeated  gloomily,  "and  I,  my  friend, 
have  no  beliefs.  What  would  you?  All  my  life  I  have 
doubted,  I  have  never  been  an  orthodox  Mohammedan  — 
though  I  have  had  to  keep  my  ideas  to  myself  bien 
entmdul  And  the  last  few  years  I  have  lived  among 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  277 

men  who  have  no  faith,  no  god,  no  thought  beyond  the 
world  and  its  pleasures.  Islam  is  nothing  to  me.  'The 
will  of  Allah  —  the  peace  of  Allah,'  what  are  they  but 
words,  empty  meaningless  words!  What  peace  did 
Allah  give  to  Omar,  who  was  a  strict  believer?  What 
peace  has  Allah  given  to  my  father,  who  sits  all  day  hi 
his  tent  mourning  for  his  first-born?  I  swear  myself  by 
Allah  and  by  the  Prophet,  but  it  is  from  custom,  not  from 
any  feeling  I  attach  to  the  terms.  I  have  read  a  French 
translation  of  a  life  of  Mohammed  written  by  an  Ameri- 
can. I  was  not  impressed.  It  did  not  tend  to  make  me 
look  with  any  more  favour  on  his  doctrine.  I  have  my 
own  religion  —  I  do  not  lie,  I  do  not  steal,  I  do  not  break 
my  word.  Does  the  devout  follower  of  the  Prophet  invari- 
ably do  as  much?  You  know,  and  I  know,  that  he  does 
not.  Wherein  then  is  he  a  better  man  than  I?  And  if 
there  be  a  future  life,  which  I  am  quite  open  to  admit, 
I  am  inclined  to  think  that  my  qualifications  will  be  as 
good  as  any  true  son  of  the  faith,"  he  laughed  unmirth- 
f ully,  and  swung  to  his  feet. 

"There  are  —  other  religions,"  said  Craven  awkwardly. 
He  had  no  desire  to  proselytise  and  avoided  religious  dis- 
cussions as  much  as  possible,  but  Said's  confidence  had 
touched  him.  He  was  aware  that  to  no  one  else  would 
the  Arab  have  spoken  so  frankly.  But  Said  shook  his 
head. 

"I  will  keep  my  own  religion.  It  will  serve,"  he  said 
shortly.  Then  he  shrugged  again  as  if  throwing  aside 
the  troubles  that  perplexed  him  and  looked  down  on 
Craven  with  a  quick  laugh.  "And  you,  my  poor  friend, 
who  had  so  much  better  have  taken  the  burnous  I  offered 
you,  you  will  stay  and  watch  the  metamorphosis  of  the 
Spahi,  hein?" 

"I  wish  I  could,'*  said  Craven  with  an  answering 
smile,  "but  I  have  my  own  work  waiting  for  me  in  Eng- 


278  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

land.  I'll  have  to  go  as  soon  as  I'm  sufficiently  patched 
up." 

Said  nodded  gravely.  He  was  perfectly  well  aware 
of  the  fact  that  Craven  had  deliberately  sought  death 
when  he  had  ridden  with  the  tribe  against  their  enemies. 
That  a  change  had  come  over  him  since  the  night  of  the 
raid  was  plainly  visible  even  to  one  less  astute  than  the 
sharp-eyed  Arab,  and  his  expressed  intention  of  return- 
ing to  England  confirmed  the  fact.  What  had  caused 
the  change  did  not  seem  to  matter,  enough  that,  to  Said, 
it  marked  a  return  to  sanity.  For  it  had  been  a  fit  of 
madness,  of  course  —  in  no  other  light  could  he  fregard  it. 
But  since  it  had  passed  and  his  English  friend  was  once 
more  in  full  possession  of  his  senses  he  could  only  acquiesce 
in  a  decision  that  personally  he  regretted.  He  would 
like  to  have  kept  him  with  him  indefinitely.  Craven 
stood  for  the  past,  he  was  a  link  with  the  life  the  Franco- 
phile Arab  was  reluctantly  surrendering.  But  it  was 
not  the  moment  to  argue.  Craven  looked  suddenly 
exhausted,  and  Yoshio  who  had  stolen  in  noiselessly, 
was  standing  at  the  head  of  the  bed  beyond  the 
range  of  his  master's  eyes  making  urgent  signals  to  the 
visitor  to  go. 

With  a  jest  and  a  cheery  word  Said  obediently  removed 
his  picturesque  person. 


CHAPTER    X 

IT  was  nearly  four  months  before  Craven  left  the  camp 
of  Mukair  Ibn  Zarrarah.  His  injuries  had  healed 
quickly  and  he  had  rapidly  regained  his  former  strength. 
He  was  anxious  to  return  to  England  without  delay,  but 
he  had  yielded  to  Said's  pressing  entreaties  to  wait  until 
they  could  ride  to  Algiers  together.  There  had  been 
much  for  the  young  Sheik  to  do.  He  was  already  virtual 
leader  of  the  tribe.  Mukair  Ibn  Zarrarah,  elderly  when 
his  sons  had  been  born,  had  aged  with  startling  sudden- 
ness since  the  death  of  Omar.  He  had  all  at  once  become 
an  old  man,  unable  to  rally  from  the  shock  of  his  bereave- 
ment, bewailing  the  fate  of  his  elder  and  favourite  son, 
and  trembling  for  the  future  of  his  beloved  tribe  left 
to  the  tender  mercies  of  a  man  he  now  recognised  to 
be  more  Frenchman  than  Arab.  He  exaggerated  every 
Francophile  tendency  he  saw  in  Said  and  cursed  the 
French  as  heartily  as  ever  Omar  had  done,  forgetting 
that  he  himself  was  largely  responsible  for  the  inclina- 
tions he  objected  to.  And  his  terrors  were  mainly 
imaginary.  A  few  innovations  Said  certainly  instituted 
but  he  was  too  astute  to  make  any  material  changes  in 
the  management  of  his  people.  They  were  loyal  and 
attached  to  the  ruling  house  and  he  was  clever  enough  to 
leave  well  alone;  broad-minded  enough  to  know  that  he 
could  not  run  a  large  and  scattered  tribe  on  the  same 
plan  as  a  regiment  of  Spahis;  philosophical  enough  to 
realise  that  he  had  turned  down  a  page  in  his  life's  his- 
tory and  must  be  content  to  follow,  more  or  less,  in  the 
footsteps  of  his  forebears.  The  fighting  men  were  with 

279 


880  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

him  solidly,  even  those  who  had  been  inclined  to  object 
to  his  European  tactics  had,  in  view  of  his  brilliant 
generalship,  been  obliged  to  concede  him  the  honour  that 
was  his  due.  For  his  victory  had  not  been  altogether 
the  walkover  he  had  airily  described  to  Craven.  The 
older  men  — the  headmen  in  particular  —  more  prejudiced 
still,  who,  like  Mukair  Ibn  Zarrarah,  had  centred  all  then* 
hopes  on  Omar,  were  beginning  to  comprehend  that  their 
fears  of  Said's  rule  were  unfounded  and  that  his  long 
sojourn  among  the  hated  dominant  race  had  neither 
impaired  his  courage  nor  fostered  practices  abhorrent  to 
them.  Craven  watched  with  interest  the  gradual  estab- 
lishment of  mutual  goodwill  between  the  young  Sheik 
and  his  petty  Chiefs.  Since  his  recovery  he  had  attended 
several  of  the  councils  called  in  consequence  of  the  old 
Sheik's  retirement  from  active  leadership  of  the  tribe, 
and  he  had  been  struck  by  Said's  restrained  and  con- 
ciliatory attitude  toward  his  headmen.  He  had  met 
them  half-way,  sinking  his  own  inclinations  and  disarm- 
ing their  suspicions  of  him.  At  the  same  time  he  had 
let  it  be  clearly  understood  that  he  meant  to  be  absolute 
as  his  father  had  been.  In  spite  of  the  civilisation  that 
had  bitten  so  deeply  he  was  still  too  much  an  Arab,  too 
much  the  son  of  Mukair  Abn  Zarrarah,  to  be  anything 
but  an  autocrat  at  heart.  And  his  assumption  of  power 
had  been  favourably  looked  upon  by  the  minor  Chiefs. 
They  were  used  to  being  ruled  by  an  iron  hand  and  would 
have  despised  a  weak  leader.  They  had  feared  the  effects 
of  foreign  influence,  dreaded  a  regime  that  might  have 
lessened  the  prestige  of  the  tribe.  Their  doubts  set  at  rest 
they  had  rallied  with  enthusiasm  round  their  new  Chief. 
As  soon  as  he  had  been  able  to  get  about  again  Craven 
had  visited  Mukair  Ibn  Zarrarah  in  his  darkened  tent 
and  been  shocked  at  his  changed  appearance.  He  could 
hardly  believe  that  the  bowed  stricken  figure  who  barely 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  281 

heeded  his  entrance,  but,  absorbed  in  grief,  continued  to 
sway  monotonously  to  and  fro  murmuring  passages  from 
the  Koran  alternately  with  the  name  of  his  dead  son,  was 
the  vigorous  alert  old  man  he  had  seen  only  a  few  weeks 
before  dominating  a  frensaed  crowd  with  the  strength  of 
his  personality  and  addressing  them  in  tones  that  had 
carried  to  the  furthest  extent  of  the  listening  multitude. 
Crushing  sorrow  and  the  weight  of  years  suddenly  felt  had 
changed  him  into  a  wreck  that  was  fast  falling  to  pieces. 

Said  had  followed  him  out  into  the  sunshine. 

"You  see  how  it  is  with  him,"  he  said.  "I  cannot 
leave  him  now.  As  soon  as  possible  I  will  go  to  Algiers 
to  give  in  my  resignation  and  smooth  matters  with  the 
Government.  We  shall  not  be  in  very  good  odour  over 
this  affair.  We  have  kept  the  peace  so  long  in  this  quar- 
ter of  the  country  that  deliberate  action  on  our  part  will 
take  a  lot  of  explaining.  They  will  admit  provocation 
but  will  blame  our  mode  of  retaliation.  They  may 
blame!"  he  laughed  and  shrugged.  "I  shall  be  called 
hasty,  ill-advised.  The  Governor  will  haul  me  over  the 
coals  unmercifully  —  you  know  him,  that  fat  old  Faid- 
herbe?  He  is  always  trembling  for  his  position,  seeing 
an  organized  revolt  in  the  petty  squabbles  of  every  little 
tribe,  and  fearful  of  an  outbreak  that  might  lead  to  his 
recall.  A  mountain  of  flesh  with  the  heart  of  a  chicken! 
He  will  rave  and  shout  and  talk  a  great  deal  about  the 
beneficent  French  administration  and  the  ingratitude  of 
Chiefs  like  myself  who  add  to  the  Government's  difficul- 
ties. But  my  Colonel  will  back  me  up,  unofficially  of 
course,  and  his  word  goes  with  the  Governor.  A  very 
different  man,  by  Allah!  It  would  be  a  good  thing  for 
this  country  if  he  were  where  Faidherbe  is.  But  he  is 
only  a  soldier  and  no  politician,  so  he  is  likely  to  end  his 
days  a  simple  Colonel  of  Spahis. " 

As  they  moved  away  from  the  tent  they  discussed  the 


282  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

French  methods  of  administration  as  carried  out  in 
Algeria,  and  Craven  learned  a  great  deal  that  astonished 
him  and  would  also  have  considerably  astonished  the 
Minister  of  the  Interior  sitting  quietly  in  his  office  in  the 
Place  Beauveau.  Said  had  seen  and  heard  much.  His 
known  sympathies  had  made  him  the  recipient  of  many 
confidences  and  even  his  Francophile  tendencies  had  not 
blinded  him  to  evils  that  were  rampant,  corruption  and 
double  dealing,  bribes  freely  offered  and  accepted  by 
highly  placed  officials,  fortunes  amassed  in  crooked 
speculations  with  Government  money  —  the  faults  of 
individuals  who  had  abused  their  official  positions  and 
exploited  the  country  they  had  been  sent  to  administer. 

As  Craven  listened  to  these  frank  revelations  from  the 
only  honest  Arab  he  had  ever  met  he  wondered  what 
effect  Said's  intimate  knowledge  would  have  upon  his 
life,  how  far  it  would  influence  him,  and  what  were  likely 
to  be  his  future  relations  with  the  masters  of  the  country. 
With  a  Chief  less  broadminded  and  of  less  innate  integ- 
rity the  result  might  easily  be  disastrous.  But  Said 
had  had  larger  experience  than  most  Arab  Chiefs  and  his 
adherence  to  the  French  was  due  to  what  he  had  seen  in 
France  rather  than  to  what  had  been  brought  to  his 
notice  in  Algeria. 

It  was  early  in  January  when  they  started  on  the  long 
ride  across  the  desert.  For  some  weeks  Craven  had  been 
impatient  to  get  away,  only  his  promise  to  Said  kept  him. 

It  was  a  large  cavalcade  that  left  the  oasis,  for  the  new 
Chief  required  a  bigger  escort  to  support  his  dignity  than 
the  Captain  of  Spahis  had  done.  The  days  passed  with- 
out incident.  Despite  Craven's  desire  to  reach  England 
the  journey  was  in  every  way  enjoyable.  When  he  had 
actually  started  his  restlessness  decreased,  for  each  suc- 
cessive sunrise  meant  a  day  nearer  home.  And  Said, 
too,  had  thrown  off  the  depression  and  new  gravity  that 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  283 

had  come  to  him  and  talked  more  hopefully  of  the  future. 
As  they  travelled  northward  they  reached  a  region  of 
greater  cultivation  and  in  their  route  passed  some  of  the 
big  fruit  /farms  that  were  becoming  more  and  more  a 
feature  of  the  country.  Spots  of  beauty  in  the  wilder- 
ness, carved  out  of  arid  desert  by  patience  and  perse- 
verance and  threatened  always  by  the  devastating  locust, 
though  no  longer  subjected  to  the  Arab  raids  that  had 
been  a  daily  menace  twenty  or  thirty  years  before.  The 
motley  gangs  of  European  and  native  workers  toiling 
more  or  less  diligently  in  the  vineyards  and  among  the 
groves  of  fruit  trees  invariably  collected  to  watch  the 
passing  of  the  Sheik's  troop,  a  welcome  break  in  the 
monotony  of  their  existence,  and  once  or  twice  Said 
accepted  the  hospitality  of  farmers  he  knew. 

Craven  stayed  only  one  night  in  Algiers.  When  writ- 
ing home  from  Lagos  he  had  given,  without  expecting  to 
make  use  of  it,  an  address  in  Algiers  to  which  letters 
might  be  sent,  but  when  he  called  at  the  office  the  morn- 
ing after  his  arrival  he  found  that  owing  to  the  mistake 
of  a  clerk  his  mail  had  been  returned  to  England.  The 
lack  of  news  made  him  uneasy.  He  was  gripped  by  a 
sudden  fear  that  something  might  have  happened  to 
Gillian,  and  he  wondered  whether  he  should  go  first  to 
Paris,  to  the  flat  he  had  taken  for  her.  But  second 
thoughts  decided  him  to  adhere  to  his  original  intention 
of  proceeding  straight  to  Craven  —  surely  she  must  by  this 
time  have  returned  to  the  Towers. 

There  was  nothing  to  do  but  telegraph  to  Peters  that 
he  was  on  his  way  home  and  make  arrangements  for 
leaving  Africa  at  the  earliest  opportunity.  He  found 
there  was  no  steamer  leaving  for  Marseilles  for  nearly  a 
week  but  he  was  able  to  secure  berths  for  himself  and 
Yoshio  on  a  coasting  boat  crossing  that  night  to 
Gibraltar,  and  at  sunset  he  was  on  board  waving  fare- 


284  THE   SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

well  to  Said,  who  had  come  down  to  the  quay  to  see  the 
last  of  him,  and  was  standing  a  distinctive  figure  among 
the  rabble  of  loafers  and  water-side  loungers  of  all 
nationalities  who  congregated  night  and  morning  to 
watch  the  arrival  and  departure  of  steamers.  The  tide 
was  out  and  the  littered  fore-shore  was  lined  with  fishing- 
boats  drawn  up  in  picturesque  confusion,  and  in  the 
shallow  water  out  among  the  rocks  bare-legged  native 
women  were  collecting  shell  fish  and  seaweed  into  great 
baskets  fastened  to  their  backs,  while  naked  children 
splashed  about  them  or  stood  with  their  knuckles  to  their 
teeth  to  watch  the  thrashing  paddle  wheels  of  the  little 
steamer  as  she  churned  slowly  away  from  the  quay. 
Craven  leant  on  the  rail  of  the  ship,  a  pipe  between  his 
teeth  —  he  had  existed  for  the  last  four  months  on  Said's 
cigarettes  —  and  waved  a  response  to  the  young  Sheik's 
final  salute,  then  watched  him  stalk  through  the 
heterogeneous  crowd  to  where  two  of  his  mounted  fol- 
lowers were  waiting  for  him  holding  his  own  impatient 
horse.  He  saw  him  mount  and  the  passers-by  scatter  as 
the  three  riders  set  off  with  the  usual  Arab  impetuosity, 
and  then  a  group  of  buildings  hid  him  from  sight. 

The  idlers  by  the  waterside  held  no  interest  for  Craven, 
he  was  too  used  to  them,  too  familiar  with  the  riff-raff  of 
foreign  ports  even  to  glance  at  them.  But  he  lingered 
for  a  moment  to  look  up  at  the  church  of  Notre  Dame 
d'Afrique  that,  set  high  above  the  harbour  and  standing 
out  sharply  against  the  skyline,  was  glowing  warmly  in 
the  golden  rays  of  the  setting  sun. 

Then  he  went  below  to  the  stuffy  little  cabin  where 
dinner  was  waiting. 

The  next  four  days  he  kicked  his  heels  impatiently  in 
Gibraltar  waiting  to  pick  up  a  passage  on  a  home  bound 
Indian  boat.  When  it  came  it  was  half  empty,  as  was 
to  be  expected  at  that  time  of  year,  and  the  gale  they 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  285 

ran  into  immediately  drove  the  majority  of  the  pas- 
sengers into  the  saloons,  and  Craven  was  able  to  tramp 
the  deck  in  comparative  solitude  without  having  to  listen 
to  the  grumbles  of  shivering  Anglo-Indians  returning 
home  at  an  unpropitious  season.  In  a  borrowed  oilskin 
he  spent  hours  watching  the  storm,  looking  at  the  white 
topped  waves  that  piled  up  against  the  ship  and 
threatened  to  engulf  her,  then  slid  astern  in  a  welter  of 
spray.  The  savage  beauty  of  the  sea  fascinated  him, 
and  the  heavy  lowering  clouds  that  drove  rapidly  across 
a  leaden  sky,  and  the  stinging  whip  of  the  wind  formed 
a  welcome  change  after  more  than  two  years  of  pitiless 
African  sun  and  intense  heat. 

They  passed  up  the  Thames  dead  slow  in  a  dense  fog 
that  grew  thicker  and  murkier  as  they  neared  the  docks, 
but  they  berthed  early  enough  to  enable  Craven  to  catch 
a  train  that  would  bring  him  home  in  time  for  dinner. 
It  was  better  than  wasting  a  night  in  London. 

He  had  a  compartment  to  himself  and  spent  the  time 
staring  out  of  the  misty  rain-spattered  windows,  a  prey 
to  violent  anxiety  and  impatience.  The  five-hour  journey 
had  never  seemed  so  long.  He  had  bought  a  number  of 
papers  and  periodicals  but  they  lay  unheeded  on  the  seat 
beside  him.  He  was  out  of  touch  with  current  events, 
and  had  stopped  at  the  bookstall  more  from  force  of 
habit  than  from  any  real  interest.  He  had  wired  to  Peters 
again  from  the  docks.  Would  she  be  waiting  for 
him  at  the  station?  It  was  scarcely  probable.  Their 
meeting  could  not  be  other  than  constrained,  the  plat- 
form of  a  wayside  railway  station  was  hardly  a  suitable 
place.  And  why  in  heaven's  name  should  she  do  him  so 
much  honour?  He  had  no  right  to  expect  it,  no  right 
to  expect  anything.  That  she  should  be  even  civil  to 
him  was  more  than  he  deserved.  Would  she  be  changed 
in  any  way?  God,  how  he  longed  to  see  her!  His  heart 


286  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

beat  furiously  even  at  the  thought.  With  his  coat  collar 
turned  up  about  his  ears  and  his  cap  pulled  down  over 
his  eyes  he  shivered  in  a  corner  of  the  cold  carriage  and 
dreamed  of  her  as  the  hours  drew  out  in  maddening  slow- 
ness. Outside  it  was  growing  dusk  and  the  window 
panes  had  become  too  steamy  for  him  to  recognise  familiar 
landmarks.  The  train  seemed  to  crawl.  There  had  been 
an  unaccountable  wait  at  the  last  stopping  place,  and 
they  did  not  appear  to  be  making  up  the  lost  time. 

It  was  a  strange  homecoming,  he  thought  suddenly. 
Stranger  even  than  when,  rather  more  than  six  years 
ago,  he  had  travelled  down  to  Craven  with  his  aunt  and 
the  shy  silent  girl  whom  fate  and  John  Locke  had  made 
his  ward.  Was  she  also  thinking  of  that  time  and  wish- 
ing that  a  kinder  future  had  been  reserved  for  her?  Was 
she  shrinking  from  his  coming,  deploring  the  day  he  had 
ever  crossed  her  path?  It  was  unlikely  that  she  could 
feel  otherwise  toward  him.  He  had  done  nothing  to 
make  her  happy,  everything  to  make  her  unhappy. 
With  a  stifled  groan  he  leant  forward  and  buried  his  face 
in  his  hands,  loathing  himself.  How  would  she  meet 
him?  Suppose  she  refused  to  resume  the  equivocal  rela- 
tionship that  had  been  fraught  with  so  much  misery, 
refused  to  surrender  the  greater  freedom  she  had  enjoyed 
during  his  absence,  claimed  the  right  to  live  her  own  life 
apart  from  him.  It  would  be  only  natural  for  her  to  do 
so.  And  morally  he  would  have  no  right  to  refuse  her. 
He  had  forfeited  that.  And  in  any  case  it  was  not  a 
question  of  his  allowing  or  refusing  anything,  it  was  a 
question  solely  of  her  happiness  and  her  wishes. 

Darkness  had  fallen  when  the  train  drew  up  with  a  jerk 
and  he  stepped  out  on  to  the  little  platform.  It  was  a 
cheerless  night  and  the  wind  tore  at  him  as  he  peered 
through  the  gloom  and  the  driving  rain,  wondering 
whether  anybody  had  come  to  meet  him.  Then  he  made 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  287 

out  Peters'  sturdy  familiar  figure  standing  under  the 
feeble  light  of  a  flickering  lamp.  Craven  hurried 
toward  him  with  a  smile  softening  his  face.  His  life  had 
been  made  up  of  journeys,  it  seemed  to  him  suddenly, 
and  always  at  the  end  of  them  was  Peters  waiting  for 
him,  Peters  who  stuck  to  the  job  he  himself  shirked, 
Peters  who  stood  loyally  by  an  employer  he  must  in  his 
heart  despise,  Peters  whose  boots  he  was  not  fit  to  clean. 

The  two  men  met  quietly,  as  if  weeks  not  years  had 
elapsed  since  they  had  parted  on  the  same  little  platform. 

"Beastly  night,"  grumbled  the  agent,  though  his 
indifference  to  bad  weather  was  notorious,  "must  feel  it 
cold  after  the  tropics.  I  brought  a  man  to  help  Yoshio 
with  your  kit.  Wait  a  minute  while  I  see  that  it's  all 
right."  He  started  off  briskly,  and  with  the  uncomfort- 
able embarrassment  he  always  felt  when  Peters  chose  to 
emphasise  their  relative  positions,  Craven  strode  after 
him  and  grabbed  him  back  with  an  iron  hand. 

"There  isn't  any  need,"  he  said  gruffly.  "I  wish 
you  wouldn't  always  behave  as  if  you  were  a  kind  of 
upper  servant,  Peter.  It's  dam'  nonsense.  Yoshio  is 
quite  capable  of  looking  after  the  kit,  there's  very  little 
in  any  case.  I  left  the  bulk  of  it  in  Algiers,  it  wasn't 
worth  bringing  along.  There  are  only  the  gun  cases 
and  a  couple  of  bags.  We  haven't  much  more  than 
what  we  stand  up  in." 

Peters  acquiesced  good-temperedly  and  led  the  way  to 
the  closed  car  that  was  waiting  at  the  station  entrance. 
As  the  motor  started  Craven  turned  to  him  eagerly,  with 
the  question  that  had  been  on  his  lips  for  the  last  ten 
minutes. 

"How  is  Gillian?" 

Peters  shot  a  sidelong  glance  at  him. 

"Couldn't  say,"  he  said  shortly;  "she  didn't  mention 
her  health  when  she  wrote  last  —  but  then  she  never 
does." 


288  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

"When  she  wrote "  echoed  Craven,  and  his  voice 

was  dull  with  disappointment;  "isn't  she  at  the  Towers? 
I  missed  my  mail  at  Algiers  —  some  mistake  of  a  fool  of  a 
clerk.  I  haven't  had  any  home  news  for  nearly  a  year." 

"She  is  still  hi  Paris,"  replied  Peters  dryly,  and  to 
Craven  his  tone  sounded  faintly  accusing.  He  frowned 
and  stared  out  into  the  darkness  for  a  few  minutes  with- 
out speaking,  wondering  how  much  Peters  knew.  He 
had  disapproved  of  the  African  expedition,  stating  his 
opinion  frankly  when  Craven  had  discussed  it  with  him, 
and  it  was  obvious  that  since  then  his  views  had  under- 
gone no  change.  Craven  understood  perfectly  what 
those  views  were  and  in  what  light  he  must  appear  to 
him.  He  could  not  excuse  himself,  could  give  no  explana- 
tion. He  doubted  very  much  whether  Peters  would 
understand  if  he  did  explain  —  his  moral  code  was  too 
simple,  his  sense  of  right  and  wrong  too  fine  to  compre- 
hend or  to  countenance  suicide.  Craven  also  felt  sure 
that  had  he  been  aware  of  the  circumstances  Peters  would 
not  have  hesitated  to  oppose  his  marriage.  Why  hadn't 
he  told  Peters  the  whole  beastly  story  when  he  returned 
from  Japan?  Peters  had  never  failed  a  Craven,  he 
would  not  have  failed  him  then.  He  stifled  a  bitter  sigh 
of  useless  regret  and  turned  again  to  his  companion. 

"Then  I  take  it  the  Towers  is  shut  up.  Are  you  giving 
me  a  bed  at  the  Hermitage?"  he  asked  quietly. 

"No.  I  have  kept  the  house  open  so  that  it  might  be 
ready  if  at  any  time  your  wife  suddenly  decided  to  come 
home.  I  imagined  that  would  be  your  wish. " 

"Yes,  yes,  of  course,"  said  Craven  hurriedly,  "you 
did  quite  right. "  Then  he  glanced  about  him  and  frowned 
again  thoughtfully.  "Isn't  this  the  Daimler  Gillian 
took  to  France  with  her  —  surely  that  is  Phillipe  driving?" 
he  asked  abruptly,  peering  through  the  window  at  the 
chauffeur's  back  illuminated  by  the  electric  lamp  hi  the 
roof  of  the  car. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  289> 

"  She  sent  it  back  a  few  months  afterwards  —  said  she 
had  no  need  for  it,"  replied  Peters.  "I  kept  Phillipe 
on  because  he  was  a  better  mechanic  than  the  other 
man.  There  was  no  need  for  two. " 

Craven  refrained  from  comment  and  relapsed  into 
silence,  which  was  unbroken  until  they  reached  the 
house. 

During  dinner  the  conversation  was  mainly  of  Africa 
and  the  scientific  success  of  the  mission,  and  of  local 
events,  topics  that  could  safely  be  discussed  in  the  hear- 
ing of  Forbes  and  the  footmen.  From  time  to  time 
Craven  glanced  about  the  big  room  with  tightened  lips. 
It  seemed  chill  and  empty  for  lack  of  the  slight  girlish 
figure  whose  presence  had  brought  sunshine  into  the 
great  house.  If  she  chose  never  to  return !  It  was  unthink- 
able that  he  could  live  in  it  alone,  it  would  be  haunted 
by  memories,  he  would  see  her  in  every  room.  And 
yet  the  thought  of  leaving  it  again  hurt  him.  He  had 
never  known  until  he  had  gone  to  Africa  with  no  intention 
of  returning  how  dear  the  place  was  to  him.  He  had 
suddenly  realised  that  he  was  a  Craven  of  Craven,  and 
all  that  it  meant.  But  without  Gillian  it  was  value- 
less. A  shrine  without  a  treasure.  An  empty  symbol 
that  would  stand  for  nothing.  Her  personality  had 
stamped  itself  on  the  house,  even  yet  her  influence_lingered 
in  the  huge  formal  dining  room  where  he  sat.  It  had 
been  her  whim  when  they  were  alone  to  banish  the 
large  table  that  seemed  so  preposterously  big  for  two- 
people  and  substitute  a  small  round  one  which  was  more 
intimate,  and  across  which  it  was  possible  to  talk  with 
greater  ease.  Forbes  was  a  man  of  fixed  ideas  and  devoted 
to  his  mistress.  Though  absent  her  wishes  were  faith- 
fully carried  out.  Mrs.  Craven  had  decreed  that  for  less 
than  four  people  the  family  board  was  an  archaic  and 
cumbersome  piece  of  furniture,  consequently  tonight 


290  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

the  little  round  table  was  there,  and  brought  home  to 
Craven  even   more   vividly  the   sense   of  her  absence. 
It   seemed   almost   a  desecration  to   see  Peters   sitting 
opposite  in  her  place.    He  grew  impatient  of  the  lengthy 
and  ceremonious  meal  the  old  butler  was  superintending 
with  such  evident  enjoyment,  and  gradually  he  became 
more  silent  and  heedless,  responding  mechanically  and 
often  inaptly  to  Peters'  flow  of  conversation.    He  wished 
now  he  had  obeyed  the  impulse  that  had  come  to  him 
in  Algiers  to  go  straight  to  Paris.    By  now  he  would 
have  seen  her,  have  learned  his  fate,   and  the  whole 
miserable  business  would  have  been  settled  one  way  or 
the  other.    He  could  not  wonder  that  she  had  elected  to 
remain  abroad.    He  had  put  her  in  a  horrible  position. 
By  lingering  in  Africa  after  the  return  of  the  rest  of  the 
mission  he  had  made  her  an  object  of  idle  curiosity  and 
speculation.    He  had  left  her  as  the  elder  Barry  Craven 
had  left  his  mother,  to  the  mercy  of  gossip-mongers  and 
to  the  pity  and  compassion  of  her  friends  which,  though 
«ven  unexpressed,  she  must  have  felt  and  resented.    He 
glanced  at  the  portrait  of  the  beautiful  sad  woman  in 
the  panel  over  the  mantelpiece  and  a  dull  red  crept  over 
his  face.     It  was  well  that  his  mother  had  died  before 
,she    realised    how  completely  the   idolised    son  was   to 
follow  in  the  footsteps  of  the  husband  who  had  broken 
her  heart.    It  was  a  tradition  in  the  family.    From  one 
motive  or  another  the  Cravens  had  consistently  been  piti- 
less to  their  womenkind.    And  he,  the  last  of  them,  had 
gone  the  way  of  all  the  others.    A  greater  shame  and 
bitterness  than  he  had  yet  felt  came  to  him,   and  a 
passionate  longing  to  undo  what  he  had  done.     And 
what  was  left  for  him  to  do  was  so  pitifully  little.    But 
he  would  do  it  without  further  delay,  he  would  start  for 
Paris  the  next  day.   Even  the  few  hours  of  waiting  seemed 
almost   unbearable.     The  thought   occurred  to  him  to 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  291 

motor  to  London  that  night  to  catch  the  morning  boat 
train  from  Victoria,  but  a  glance  at  his  watch  convinced 
him  of  the  impossibility  of  the  idea.  Owing  to  the  delay 
of  the  train  it  had  been  nine  o'clock  before  he  reached  the 
Towers.  It  was  ten  now.  Another  hour  would  be  wasted 
before  Phillipe  and  the  car  would  be  ready  for  the  long 
run.  And  it  was  a  wicked  night  to  take  a  man  out,  the 
strain  of  driving  under  such  conditions  at  top  speed 
through  the  darkness  would  be  tremendous.  Reluctantly 
he  abandoned  the  project.  There  was  nothing  for  it  but 
to  wait  until  the  morning. 

Forbes  at  his  elbow  recalled  him  to  his  duties  as  host. 
With  a  murmured  apology  to  Peters  he  rose  to  his  feet. 

"Coffee  in  the  study,  please,"  he  said,  and  left  the 
room. 

In  the  study,  in  chairs  drawn  up  to  the  blazing  fire, 
the  two  men  smoked  for  some  time  in  silence.  Though 
consumed  ~  !th  anxiety  to  hear  more  of  his  wife  Craven 
felt  a  certain  diffidenc?  in  mentioning  her  name,  and 
Peters  volunteered  nothing.  After  a  time  the  agent 
began  to  speak  of  the  estate.  "I  want  to  give  an 
account  of  my  stewardship,"  he  said,  with  an  odd  ring 
in  his  voice  that  Craven  did  not  understand.  And  for 
the  best  part  of  an  hour  he  talked  of  farms  and  leases,  of 
cottage  property  and  timber,  of  improvements  and 
alterations  carried  out  during  Craven's  absence  or  in 
progress,  of  the  conditions  under  which  certain  of  the 
bigger  houses  scattered  about  the  property  were  let  —  a 
complete  history  of  the  working  and  management  of  the 
estate  extending  back  many  years  until  Craven  grew 
more  and  more  bewildered  as  to  the  reason  of  this 
detailed  revelation  that  seemed  to  him  somewhat  unneces- 
sary and  certainly  ill-timed.  He  did  not  want  to  be 
bothered  with  business  the  very  moment  of  his  arrival. 
Peters  was  punctilious  of  course,  always  had  been,  but 


292  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

his  stewardship  had  never  been  called  in  question  and 
there  was  surely  no  need  for  this  complicated  and  lengthy 
narrative  of  affairs  tonight. 

"And  then  there  are  the  accounts,"  concluded  the 
agent,  in  the  dry  curiously  formal  voice  he  had  adopted 
all  the  evening.  Craven  made  a  gesture  of  protest. 
"The  accounts  can  wait,"  he  said  shortly.  "I  don't 
know  why  on  earth  you  want  to  bother  about  all  thig 
tonight,  Peter.  There  will  be  plenty  of  time  later.  Have 
I  ever  criticised  anything  you  did?  I'm  not  such  a  fool. 
You've  forgotten  more  than  I  ever  knew  about  the 
estate. " 

"I  should  like  you  to  see  them,"  persisted  Peters, 
drawing  a  big  bundle  of  papers  from  his  pocket  and  pro- 
ceeding to  remove  and  roll  up  with  his  usual  precise  neat- 
ness the  tape  that  confined  them.  He  pushed  the  typed 
sheets  across  the  little  table.  "r  Jon't  think  you  will 
find  any  error.  The  estate  accounts  are  all  straightfor- 
ward. But  there  is  an  item  in  the  personal  accounts 
that  I  must  ask  you  to  consider.  It  is  a  sum  of  eight 
thousand  pounds  standing  to  your  credit  that  I  do  not 
know  what  to  do  with.  You  will  remember  that  when 
you  went  to  Africa  you  instructed  me  to  pay  your  wife 
four  thousand  a  year  during  your  absence.  I  have  sent 
her  the  money  every  quarter,  which  she  has  acknowl- 
edged. Three  months  ago  the  London  bank  advised  me 
that  eight  thousand  pounds  had  been  paid  into  your 
account  by  Mrs.  Craven,  the  total  amount  of  her  allow- 
ance, in  fact,  during  the  time  you  have  been  away." 

There  was  a  lengthy  pause  after  Peters  stopped  speak- 
ing, and  then  Craven  looked  up  slowly. 

"I  don't  understand,"  he  said  thickly;  "all  her  allow- 
ance !  What  has  she  been  living  on  —  what  the  devil  does 
it  mean?" 

Peters  shrugged.    "I  don't  know  any  more  about  it 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  293 

than  you  do.  I  am  simply  telling  you  what  is  the  case. 
It  was  not  for  me  to  question  her  on  such  a  matter,"  he 
said  coldly. 

"But,  Good  Heavens,  man/'  began  Craven  hotly,  and 
then  checked  himself.  He  felt  stunned  by  Peters'  bald 
statement  of  fact,  unable,  quite,  for  the  moment,  to 
grasp  it.  Heavens  above,  how  she  must  hate  him!  To 
decline  to  touch  the  money  he  had  assured  her  was  hers, 
not  his!  On  what  or  on  whom  had  she  been  living? 
His  face  became  suddenly  congested.  Then  he  put  the 
hateful  thought  from  him.  It  was  not  possible  to  con- 
nect such  a  thing  with  Gillian.  Only  his  own  foul  mind 
could  have  imagined  it.  And  yet,  if  she  had  been  other 
than  she  was,  if  it  had  been  so,  if  in  her  loneliness  and 
misery  she  had  found  Love  and  protection  she  had  been 
unable  to  withstand  —  the  fault  would  be  his,  not  hers. 
He  would  have  driven  her  to  it.  He  would  be  responsible. 
For  a  moment  the  room  went  black.  Then,  he  pulled 
himself  together.  Putting  the  bundle  of  accounts  back 
on  to  the  table  he  met  steadily  Peters'  intent  gaze.  "My 
wife  is  quite  at  liberty  to  do  what  she  chooses  with  her 
own  money,"  he  said  slowly,  "though  I  admit  I  don't 
understand  her  action.  Doubtless  she  will  explain  it 
in  due  course.  Until  then  the  money  can  continue  to 
lie  idle.  It  is  not  such  a  large  sum  that  you  need  be  in 
such  a  fierce  hurry  about  it.  In  any  case  I  am  going 
to  Paris  tomorrow.  I  can  let  you  know  further  when 
I  have  seen  her."  His  voice  was  harsh  with  the  effort 
it  cost  him  to  steady  it.  "And  having  seen  her  —  what 
are  you  going  to  do  to  her?"  The  question,  and  the 
manner  of  asking  it,  made  Craven  look  at  Peters  in 
sudden  amazement.  The  agent's  face  was  stern  and 
curiously  pale,  high  up  on  his  cheek  a  little  pulse  was 
beating  visibly  and  his  eyes  were  blazing  direct  challenge. 
Craven's  brows  drew  together  slowly. 


294  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

Peters  leant  forward,  resting  one  arm  on  his  knee,  and 
the  knuckles  of  his  clenched  hand  shone  white. 

"I  asked  you  in  so  many  words  what  you  were  going 
to  do  to  her,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  vibrant  with  emotion. 
"You  will  say  it  is  no  business  of  mine.  But  I  am  going 
to  make  it  my  business.  Good  God,  Barry,  do  you  think 
I've  seen  nothing  all  these  years?  Do  you  think  I  can 
sit  down  and  watch  history  repeat  itself  and  make  no 
effort  to  avert  it  for  lack  of  moral  courage?  I  can't. 
When  you  were  a  boy  I  had  to  stand  aside  and  see  your 
mother's  heart  broken,  and  I'm  damned  if  I'm  going  to 
keep  silent  while  you  break  Gillian's  heart.  I  loved  your 
mother,  the  light  went  out  for  me  when  she  died.  For 
her  sake  I  carried  on  here,  hoping  I  might  be  of  use  to 
you  —  because  you  were  her  son.  And  then  Gillian  came 
and  helped  to  fill  the  blank  she  had  left.  She  honoured 
me  with  her  friendship,  she  brought  brightness  into  my 
life  until  gradually  she  has  become  as  dear  to  me  as  if 
she  were  my  own  daughter.  All  I  care  about  is  her  hap- 
piness —  and  yours.  But  she  comes  first,  poor  lonely 
child.  Why  did  you  marry  her  if  it  was  only  to  leave 
her  desolate  again?  Wasn't  her  past  history  sad  enough? 
She  was  happy  here  at  first,  before  your  marriage.  But 
afterwards  —  were  you  blind  to  the  change  that  came 
over  her?  Couldn't  you  see  that  she  was  unhappy?  I 
could.  .  And  I  tell  you  I  was  hard  put  to  it  sometimes  to 
hold  my  tongue.  It  wasn't  my  place  to  interfere,  it 
wasn't  my  place  to  see  anything,  but  I  couldn't  help  seeing 
what  was  patent  to  the  eye  of  anybody  who  was  inter- 
ested. You  left  her,  and  you  have  come  back.  For  what? 
You  are  her  husband,  in  name  at  any  rate  —  oh,  yes, 
I  know  all  about  that,  I  know  a  great  deal  more  than 
I  am  supposed  to  know,  and  do  you  think  I  am  the  only 
one?  —  legally  she  is  bound  to  you,  though  I  do  not  doubt 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  295 

she  could  easily  procure  her  freedom  if  she  so  wished, 
so  I  ask  you  again  —  what  are  you  going  to  do?  She 
is  wholly  in  your  power,  utterly  at  your  mercy.  What 
more  is  she  to  endure  at  your  hands?  I  am  speaking 
plainly  because  it  seems  to  me  to  be  a  time  for  plain 
speaking.  I  can't  help  what  you  think,  I  am  afraid  I 
don't  care.  You've  been  like  a  son  to  me.  I  promised 
your  mother  on  her  death-bed  that  I  would  never  fail 
you,  I  could  have  forgiven  you  any  mortal  thing  on 
earth  —  but  Gillian.  It's  Gillian  and  me,  Barry.  And  if 
it's  a  case  of  fighting  for  her  happiness  —  by  God,  I'll 
fight!  And  now  you  know  why  I  have  told  you  all  that 
I  have  tonight,  why  I  have  rendered  an  account  of  my 
stewardship.  If  you  want  me  to  go  I  shall  quite  under- 
stand. I  know  I  have  exceeded  my  prerogative  but  I 
can't  help  it.  I've  left  everything  in  order,  easy  for 

anybody  to  take  over "    Craven's  head  had  sunk 

into  his  hands,  now  he  sprang  to  his  feet  unable  to  con- 
trol himself  any  longer.  "Peter  —  for  God's  sake " 

he  cried  chokingly,  and  stumbling  to  the  window  he 
wrenched  back  the  curtain  and  flung  up  the  sash,  lifting 
his  face  to  the  storm  of  wind  and  rain  that  beat  in  about 
him,  his  chest  heaving,  his  arms  held  rigid  to  his  sides. 
"Do  you  think  I  don't  care?"  he  said  at  last, 
brokenly.  "Do  you  think  it  hasn't  nearly  killed  me  to 
see  her  unhappiness  —  to  be  able  to  do  nothing.  You 
don't  know  —  I  wasn't  fit  to  be  near  her,  to  touch  her. 
I  hoped  by  going  to  Africa  to  set  her  free.  But  I  couldn't 
die.  I  tried,  God  knows  I  tried,  by  every  means  in  my 
power  short  of  deliberately  blowing  my  brains  out  — 
a  suicide's  widow  —  I  couldn't  brand  her  like  that.  When 
men  were  dying  around  me  like  flies  death  passed  me 
by  —  I  wasn't  fit  even  for  that,  I  suppose. "  He  gave 
a  ghastly  little  mirthless  laugh  that  made  Peters  wince 
and  came  back  slowly  into  the  room,  heedless  of  the 


296  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

•window  he  had  left  open,  and  walked  to  the  fireplace 
dropping  his  head  on  his  arm  on  the  mantel.  "You 
asked  me  just  now  what  I  meant  to  do  to  her  —  it  is  not 
a  question  of  me  at  all  but  what  Gillian  elects  to  do.  I 
am  going  to  her  tomorrow.  The  future  rests  with  her. 
If  she  turns  me  down  —  and  you  turn  me  down  —  I  shall 
go  to  the  devil  the  quickest  way  possible.  It's  not  a 
threat,  I'm  not  trying  to  make  bargains,  it's  just  that 
I'm  at  the  end  of  my  tether.  I've  made  a  damnable 
mess  of  my  life,  I've  brought  misery  to  the  woman  I 
love.  For  I  do  love  her,  God  help  me.  I  married  her 
because  I  loved  her,  because  I  couldn't  bear  to  lose  her. 
I  was  mad  with  jealousy.  And  heaven  knows  I've  been 
punished  for  it.  My  life's  been  hell.  But  it  doesn't 
matter  about  me  —  it's  only  Gillian  who  matters,  only 
Gillian  who  counts  for  anything."  His  voice  sank  into 
a  whisper  and  a  long  shudder  passed  over  him. 

The  anger  had  died  out  of  Peters'  face  and  the  old 
tenderness  crept  back  into  his  eyes  as  they  rested  on  the 
tall  bowed  figure  by  the  fireplace.  He  rose  and  went  to 
the  window,  shutting  it  and  drawing  the  curtain  back 
neatly  into  position.  Then  he  crossed  the  room  slowly 
and  laid  his  hand  for  an  instant  on  Craven's  shoulder 
with  a  quick  firm  pressure  that  conveyed  more  than 
words.  "Sit  down,"  he  said  gruffly,  and  going  back  to 
the  little  table  splashed  some  whisky  into  a  glass  and 
held  it  under  the  syphon.  Craven  took  the  drink  from 
him  mechanically  but  set  it  down  barely  tasted  as  he 
dropped  again  into  the  chair  he  had  left  a  few  minutes 
before.  He  lit  a  cigarette,  and  Peters,  as  he  filled  his 
own  pipe,  noticed  that  his  hands  were  shaking.  He  was 
silent  for  a  long  time,  the  cigarette,  neglected,  smoulder- 
ing between  his  fingers,  his  face  hidden  by  his  other 
hand.  At  last  he  looked  up,  his  grey  eyes  filled  with  an 
almost  desperate  appeal. 


THE   SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  297 

"You'll  stay,  Peter  —  for  the  sake  of  the  place?"  he 
said  unsteadily.  "You  made  it  what  it  is,  it  would  go 
to  pieces  if  you  went.  And  I  can't  go  without  you  —  if 
you  chuck  me  it  will  about  finish  me." 

Peters  drew  vigorously  at  his  pipe  and  a  momentary 
moisture  dimmed  his  vision.  He  was  remembering 
another  appeal  made  to  him  in  thi  s  very  room  thirty 
years  before  when,  after  a  stormy  interview  with  his 
employer,  the  woman  he  had  loved  had  begged  him  to 
remain  and  save  the  property  for  the  little  son  who  was 
her  only  hold  on  life.  It  was  the  mother's  face  not  the 
son's  he  saw  before  him,  the  mother's  voice  that  was 
ringing  in  his  ears. 

"  I'll  stay,  Barry  —  as  long  as  you  want  me, "  he  said 
at  length  huskily  from  behind  a  dense  cloud  of  smoke. 
A  look  of  intense  relief  passed  over  Craven's  worn  face. 
He  tried  to  speak  and,  failing,  gripped  Peters'  hand  with 
a  force  that  left  the  agent's  fingers  numb. 

There  was  another  long  pause.  The  blaze  of  the  cheer- 
ful fire  within  and  the  fury  of  the  storm  beating  against 
the  house  without  were  the  only  sounds  that  broke  the 
silence.  Peters  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"You  say  you  are  going  to  her  tomorrow  —  do  you 
know  where  to  find  her?" 

Craven  looked  up  with  a  start. 

"Has  she  moved?"  he  asked  uneasily.  Peters  stirred 
uncomfortably  and  made  a  little  deprecating  gesture  with 
his  hand. 

"It  was  a  tallish  rent,  you  know.  The  flat  you  took 
was  in  the  most  expensive  quarter  of  Paris,"  he  said 
with  reluctance.  Craven  winced  and  his  hands  gripped 
the  arms  of  his  chair. 

"But  you  —  you  write  to  her,  you  have  been  over 
several  times  to  see  her,"  he  said,  with  a  new  trouble 
coming  into  his  eyes,  and  Peters  turned  from  his  steady 
stare. 


£98  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

"Her  letters,  by  her  own  request,  are  sent  to  the 
bank.  I  was  only  once  in  the  flat,  shortly  after  you  left. 
I  think  she  must  have  given  it  up  almost  immediately. 
Since  then  when  I  have  run  over  for  a  day  —  she  never 
seemed  to  want  me  to  stay  longer  —  we  have  met  in  the 
Louvre  or  in  the  gardens  of  the  Tuileries,  according  to 
weather, "  he  said  hesitatingly. 

Craven  stiffened  in  his  chair. 

"The  Louvre  —  the  gardens  of  the  Tuileries,"  he 

gasped,  "but  what  on  earth "  he  broke  off  with  a 

smothered  word  Peters  did  not  catch,  and  springing  up 
began  to  pace  the  room  with  his  hands  plunged  deep  in 
his  pockets.  His  face  was  set  and  his  lips  compressed 
under  the  neat  moustache.  His  mind  was  in  a  ferment, 
he  could  hardly  trust  himself  to  speak.  He  halted  at 
last  in  front  of  Peters,  his  eyes  narrowing  as  he  gazed 
down  at  him.  "Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  you  your- 
self do  not  know  where  she  is?"  he  said  fiercely.  Peters 
shook  his  head.  "I  do  not.  I  wisk  to  heaven  I  did. 
But  what  could  I  do?  I  couldn't  question  her.  She 
made  it  plain  she  had  no  wish  to  discuss  the  subject. 
The  little  I  did  say  she  put  aside.  It  was  not  for  me  to 
spy  on  your  wife,  or  employ  a  detective  to  shadow  her 
movements,  no  matter  how  anxious  I  felt. " 

"No,  you  couldn't  have  done  that,"  said  Craven 
drearily,  and  turned  away.  To  pursue  the  matter 
further,  even  with  Peters,  seemed  suddenly  to  him  im- 
possible. He  wanted  to  be  alone  to  think  out  this  new 
problem,  though  at  the  same  time  he  knew  that  no 
amount  of  thought  would  solve  it.  He  would  have  to 
wait  with  what  patience  he  could  until  the  morning  when 
he  would  be  able  to  act  instead  of  think. 

His  face  was  expressionless  when  he  turned  to  Peters 
again  and  sat  down  quietly  to  discuss  business.  Hah* 
an  hour  later  the  agent  rose  to  go.  "I'll  bring  up  a, 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  299 

checque  book  and  some  money  in  the  morning  before 
you  start.  You  won't  have  time  to  go  to  the  bank  in 
London.  Wire  me  your  address  in  Paris  —  and  bring  her 
back  with  you,  Barry.  The  whole  place  misses  her,"  he 
said  with  a  catch  in  his  voice,  stuffing  the  bundle  of 
papers  into  his  pocket.  Craven's  reply  was  inaudible 
but  Peters'  heart  was  lighter  than  it  had  been  for  years 
as  he  went  out  into  the  hall  to  get  his  coat.  "Yes,  I'm 
walking,"  he  replied  in  response  to  an  inquiry,  "bit  of 
rain  won't  hurt  me,  I'm  too  seasoned,"  and  he  laughed 
for  the  first  time  that  evening. 

Going  back  to  the  study  Craven  threw  a  fresh  log  on 
the  fire,  filled  a  pipe,  and  drew  a  chair  close  to  the 
hearth.  It  was  past  one  but  he  was  disinclined  for  bed. 
Peters'  revelations  had  staggered  him.  His  brain  was 
on  fire.  He  felt  that  not  until  he  had  found  her  and 
got  to  the  bottom  of  all  this  mystery  would  he  be  able 
to  sleep  again.  And  perhaps  not  even  then,  he  thought 
with  a  quickening  heart-beat  and  a  sick  fear  of  what  his 
investigations  in  Paris  might  lead  to. 

Before  leaving  England  he  had  snatched  time  from 
his  African  preparations  to  superintend  personally  the 
arrangements  for  her  stay  in  Paris.  He  had  himself 
selected  the  flat  and  installed  her  with  every  comfort  and 
luxury  that  was  befitting  his  wife.  She  had  demurred 
once  or  twice  on  the  score  of  extravagance,  particularly 
in  the  case  of  the  car  he  had  insisted  on  sending  over 
for  her  use,  but  he  had  laughed  at  her  protests  and  she 
had  ceased  to  make  any  further  objection,  accepting  his 
wishes  with  the  shy  gentleness  that  marked  her  usual 
attitude  toward  him.  And  she  must  have  hated  it  all! 
Why?  She  was  his  wife,  what  was  his  was  hers.  He 
had  consistently  impressed  that  on  her  from  the  first. 
But  it  was  obvious  that  she  had  never  seen  it  in  that 
light.  He  remembered  her  passionate  refusal  —  ending 


300  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

in  tears  that  had  horrified  him  —  of  the  big  settlement  he 
had  wished  to  make  at  the  time  of  their  marriage,  her 
distress  in  taking  the  allowance  he  had  had  to  force  upon 
her.  Was  it  only  his  money  she  hated,  or  was  it  him- 
self as  well?  And  to  what  had  her  hatred  driven  her? 
A  fiercer  gust  of  wind  shrieked  round  the  house,  driving 
the  rain  in  torrents  against  the  window,  and  as  he 
listened  to  it  splashing  sharply  on  the  glass  Craven 
shivered.  Where  was  she  tonight?  WThat  shelter  had 
she  found  in  the  pitiless  city  of  contrasts?  Fragile  and 
alone  —  and  penniless?  His  hand  clenched  until  the 
stem  of  the  pipe  he  was  holding  snapped  between  his 
fingers  and  he  flung  the  fragments  into  the  fire,  leaning 
forward  and  staring  into  the  dying  embers  with  haggard 
eyes  —  picturing,  remembering.  He  was  intimately 
acquainted  with  Paris,  with  two  at  least  of  its  multi- 
farious aspects  —  the  brilliant  Paris  of  the  rich,  and  the 
cruel  Paris  of  the  struggling  student.  And  yet,  after 
all,  what  did  his  knowledge  of  the  latter  amount  to?  It 
had  amused  him  for  a  time  to  live  in  the  Latin  quarter 
• — it  was  in  a  disreputable  cabaret  on  the  south  side  of 
the  river  that  he  had  first  come  across  John  Locke  —  he 
had  mixed  there  with  all  and  sundry,  rubbing  shoulders 
with  the  riff-raff  of  nations;  he  had  seen  its  vice  and 
destitution,  had  mingled  with  its  feverish  surface  gaiety 
and  known  its  underlying  squalor  and  ugliness,  but 
always  as  a  disinterested  spectator,  a  transient  passer 
by.  Always  he  had  had  money  in  his  pocket.  He  had 
never  known  the  deadly  ever  present  fear  that  lies  coldly 
at  the  heart  of  even  the  wildest  of  the  greater  number 
of  its  inhabitants.  He  had  seen  but  never  felt  starva- 
tion. He  had  never  sold  his  soul  for  bread.  But  he 
had  witnessed  such  a  sale,  not  once  or  twice  but  many 
times.  In  his  carelessness  he  had  accepted  it  as  inevi- 
table. But  the  recollection  stabbed  him  now  with  sudden 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  301 

poignancy.  Merciful  God,  toward  what  were  his  thoughts 
tending!  He  brushed  his  hand  across  his  eyes  as  though 
to  clear  away  some  hideous  vision  and  rose  slowly  to 
his  feet.  The  expiring  fire  fell  together  with  a  little 
crash,  flared  for  an  instant  and  then  died  down  in  a 
smouldering  red  mass  that  grew  quickly  grey  and  cold. 
With  a  deep  sigh  Craven  turned  and  went  heavily  from 
the  room.  He  lingered  for  a  moment  in  the  hall,  dimly 
lit  by  the  single  lamp  left  burning  above,  listening  to 
the  solemn  ticking  of  the  clock,  that  at  that  moment 
chimed  with  unnatural  loudness. 

Mechanically  he  took  out  his  watch  and  wound  it,  and 
then  went  slowly  up  the  wide  staircase.  At  the  head  of 
the  stairs  he  paused  again.  The  great  house  had  never 
seemed  so  silent,  so  empty,  so  purposeless.  The  rows  of 
closed  doors  opening  from  the  gallery  seemed  like  the 
portals  of  some  huge  mausoleum,  vacant  and  chill.  A 
house  of  desolation  that  cried  to  him  to  fill  its  emptiness 
with  life  and  love.  With  lagging  steps  he  walked  half 
way  along  the  gallery,  passing  two  of  the  closed  doors 
with  averted  head,  but  at  the  third  he  stopped  abruptly, 
yielding  to  an  impulse  that  had  come  to  him.  For  a 
moment  he  hesitated,  as  though  before  some  holy  place 
he  feared  to  desecrate,  then  with  a  quick  drawn  breath 
he  turned  the  handle  and  went  in. 

In  the  darkness  his  hand  sought  and  found  the  electric 
switch  by  the  door,  and  pressing  it  the  room  was  flooded 
with  soft  shaded  light.  Peters  had  spoken  only  the 
truth  when  he  said  that  the  house  was  kept  in  immediate 
readiness  for  its  mistress's  return.  Craven  had  never 
crossed  the  threshold  of  this  room  before,  and  seeing  it 
thus  for  the  first  time  he  could  hardly  believe  that  for 
two  years  it  had  been  tenantless.  She  might  have  gone 
from  it  ten  minutes  before.  It  was  redolent  of  her 
presence.  The  little  intimate  details  were  as  she  had 


302  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

left  them.  A  bowl  of  bronze  chrysanthemums  stood  on 
the  dressing  table  where  lay  the  tortoise-shell  toilet 
articles  given  her  by  Miss  Craven.  A  tiny  clock  ticked 
companionably  on  the  mantelpiece.  The  pain  in  his 
eyes  deepened  as  they  swept  the  room  with  hungry 
eagerness  to  take  in  every  particular.  Her  room!  The 
room  from  which  his  unworthiness  had  barred  him.  All 
that  he  had  forfeited  rose  up  before  him,  and  in  over- 
whelming shame  and  misery  a  wave  of  burning  colour 
rolled  slowly  over  his  face.  Never  had  the  distance 
between  them  seemed  so  wide.  Never  had  her  purity 
and  innocence  been  brought  home  to  him  so  forcibly  as 
in  this  spotless  white  chamber.  Its  simplicity  and  fresh 
almost  austere  beauty  seemed  the  reflection  of  her  own 
stainless  soul  and  the  fierce  passion  that  was  consuming 
him  seemed  by  contrast  hideous  and  brutal.  It  was  as 
if  he  had  violated  the  sanctuary  of  a  cloistered  Nun. 
And  yet  might  not  even  passion  be  beautiful  if  love 
hallowed  it?  His  arms  stretched  out  in  hopeless  long- 
ing, her  name  burst  from  his  lips  in  a  cry  of  desperate 
loneliness,  and  he  fell  on  his  knees  beside  the  bed,  bury- 
ing his  face  in  the  thick  soft  quilt,  his  strong  brown 
hands  outflung,  gripping  and  twisting  its  silken  cover 
in  his  agony. 

Hours  later  he  raised  his  tired  eyes  to  the  pale  light 
of  the  wintry  dawn  filtering  feebly  through  the  close 
drawn  curtains. 

He  left  that  morning  for  Paris,  alone. 

It  was  still  raining  steadily  and  the  chill  depressing 
outlook  from  the  train  did  not  tend  to  lighten  his  gloomy 
thoughts. 

In  London  the  rain  poured  down  incessantly.  The 
roads  were  greasy  and  slippery  with  mud,  the  pave- 
ments filled  with  hurrying  jostling  crowds,  whose  drip- 
ping umbrellas  glistened  under  the  flaring  shop  lights. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  303 

Craven  peered  at  the  cheerless  prospect  as  he  drove  from 
one  station  to  the  other  and  shivered  at  the  gloom  and 
wretchedness  through  which  he  was  passing.  The  mean 
streets  and  dreary  squalid  houses  took  on  a  greater 
significance  for  him  than  they  had  ever  done.  The  sight 
of  a  passing  woman,  ill-clad  and  rain-drenched,  sent 
through  him  a  stab  of  horrible  pain.  Paris  could  be  as 
cruel,  as  pitiless,  as  this  vaster,  wealthier  city. 

He  left  his  bag  in  the  cloakroom  at  Charing  Cross  and 
spent  the  hours  of  waiting  for  the  boat  train  tramping 
the  streets  in  the  vicinity  of  the  station.  He  was  in  no 
mood  to  go  to  his  Club,  where  he  would  find  a  host  of 
acquaintances  eager  for  an  account  of  his  wanderings 
and  curious  concerning  his  tardy  return. 

The  time  dragged  heavily.  He  turned  into  a  quiet 
restaurant  to  get  a  meal  and  ate  without  noticing  what 
was  put  before  him.  At  the  earliest  opportunity  he 
sought  the  train  and  buried  himself  in  the  corner  of  a 
compartment  praying  that  the  wretched  night  might 
lessen  the  number  of  travellers.  Behind  an  evening 
paper  which  he  did  not  attempt  to  read  he  smoked  in 
silence,  which  the  two  other  men  in  the  carriage  did  not 
break.  Foreigners  both,  they  huddled  in  great  coats  in 
opposite  corners  and  were  asleep  almost  before  the  train 
pulled  out  of  the  station.  Laying  down  the  paper  that 
had  no  interest  for  him  Craven  surveyed  them  for  a 
moment  with  a  feeling  of  envy,  and  tilting  his  hat  over 
his  eyes,  endeavoured  to  emulate  their  good  example. 
But,  despite  his  weariness,  sleep  would  not  come  to  him. 
He  sat  listening  to  the  rattle  of  the  train  and  to  the 
peaceful  snoring  of  his  companions  until  his  mind  ceased 
to  be  diverted  by  immediate  distractions  and  centred 
wholly  on  the  task  before  him. 

At  Dover  the  weather  had  not  improved  and  the  sea 
was  breaking  high  over  the  landing  stage,  drenching  the 


*304  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

few  passengers  as  they  hurried  on  to  the  boat  and  dived 
below  for  shelter  from  the  storm.  Indifferent  to  the 
weather  Craven  chose  to  stay  on  deck  and  stood  through- 
out the  crossing  under  lea  of  the  deckhouse  where  it  was 
possible  to  keep  a  pipe  alight. 

Contrary  to  his  expectation  he  managed  to  sleep  in  the 
train  and  slept  until  they  reached  Paris.  Avoiding  a 
hotel  where  he  was  known  he  drove  to  one  of  the  smaller 
establishments,  and  engaging  a  room  ordered  breakfast 
and  sat  down  to  think  out  his  next  move. 

There  were  two  possible  sources  of  information,  the 
flat,  where  she  might  have  left  an  address  when  she 
vacated  it,  and  the  bank  where  Peters  had  told  him  she 
called  for  letters.  He  would  try  them  before  resorting 
to  the  expedient  of  employing  a  detective,  which  he  was 
loth  to  do  until  all  other  means  failed.  He  hated  the 
idea,  but  there  was  no  alternative  except  the  police, 
whose  aid  he  had  determined  not  to  invoke  unless  it 
became  absolutely  necessary.  It  was  imperative  that 
,  his  search  should  be  conducted  as  quietly  and  as  secretly 
as  possible.  He  decided  to  visit  the  flat  first,  and,  hav- 
ing wired  to  Peters  in  accordance  with  his  promise,  set 
out  on  foot. 

It  was  not  actually  raining  but  the  clouds  hung  low 
and  threatening  and  the  air  was  raw.  He  walked  fast, 
swinging  along  the  crowded  streets  with  his  eyes  fixed 
straight  in  front  of  him.  And  his  great  height  and  deeply 
tanned  face  made  him  a  conspicuous  figure  that  excited 
attention  of  which  he  was  ignorant. 

Leaving  the  narrow  street  where  was  his  hotel  he 
emerged  into  the  Place  de  la  Madeleine,  and  threading 
his  way  through  the  stream  of  traffic  turned  into  the 
Boulevard  de  Malesherbes,  which  he  followed,  cutting 
across  the  Boulevard  Haussmann  and  passing  the  Church 
of  Saint  Augustin,  until  the  trees  in  the  Pare  Monceau 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  305 

rose  before  him.  How  often  in  the  heat  of  Africa  had 
he  pictured  her  sitting  in  the  shade  of  those  great  spread- 
ing planes,  reading  or  sketching  the  children  who  played 
about  her?  He  had  thought  of  her  every  hour  of  the 
day  and  night,  seeing  her  in  his  mind  moving  about  the 
flat  he  had  taken  and  furnished  with  such  care.  How 
utterly  futile  had  been  all  his  dreams  about  her.  His 
lips  tightened  as  he  passed  up  the  steps  of  the  house  he 
remembered  so  well. 

But  to  his  inquiries  the  concierge,  who  was  a  new- 
comer, could  give  no  reply.  He  had  no  knowledge  of 
any  Madame  Craven  who  had  lived  there,  and  was 
plainly  uninterested  in  a  tenant  who  had  left  before  his 
time.  It  was  past  history  with  which  he  had  nothing 
to  do,  and  with  which  he  made  it  clear  he  did  not  care 
to  be  involved.  He  was  curt  and  decisive  but,  with  an 
eye  to  Craven's  powerful  proportions,  refrained  from  the 
insolence  that  is  customary  among  his  kind.  It  was  the 
first  check,  but  as  he  walked  away  Craven  admitted  to 
himself  that  he  had  not  counted  overmuch  on  obtaining 
any  information  from  that  quarter,  taking  into  account 
the  short  time  she  had  lived  there.  Remained  the  bank. 
He  retraced  his  steps,  walking  directly  to  the  Place  de 
1'Opera.  But  the  bank,  which  was  also  a  tourists'  agency, 
could  give  him  no  assistance.  The  lady  called  for  her 
letters  at  infrequent  intervals,  they  had  no  idea  where 
she  might  be  found.  Would  the  gentleman  care  to  leave 
a  card,  which  would  be  given  to  her  at  the  first  oppor- 
tunity? But  Craven  shook  his  head  —  the  chance  of  her 
calling  was  too  vague  —  and  passed  out  again  into  the 
busy  streets.  There  was  nothing  for  it  now  but  a  detective 
agency,  and  with  his  face  grown  grimmer  he  went  with- 
out further  delay  to  the  bureau  of  a  firm  he  knew  by 
repute.  In  the  private  room  of  the  Chef  de  Bureau  he 
detailed  his  requirements  with  national  brevity  and  con- 


306  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

ciseness.  His  knowledge  of  the  language  stood  him  in 
good  stead  and  the  painfulness  of  the  interview  was 
mitigated  by  the  businesslike  and  tactful  manner  in 
which  his  commission  was  received.  The  keen-eyed  man 
who  sat  tapping  a  gold  pencil  case  on  his  thumbnail  in 
the  intervals  of  taking  notes  had  a  reputation  to  main- 
tain which  he  was  not  unwilling  to  increase;  foreign 
clients  were  by  no  means  rare,  but  they  did  not  come 
every  day,  nor  were  they  always  so  apparently  full  of 
wealth  as  this  stern-faced  Englishman,  who  spoke  author- 
itatively as  one  accustomed  to  being  obeyed  and  yet 
with  a  turn  of  phrase  and  politesse  unusual  in  his 
countrymen. 

Followed  two  days  of  interminable  waiting  and  sus- 
pense, two  days  that  to  Craven  seemed  like  two  life- 
times. He  hung  about  the  hotel,  not  daring  to  go  far 
afield  lest  he  should  lose  some  message  or  report.  He 
had  no  wish  either  to  advertise  his  presence  in  Paris,  he 
had  too  many  friends  there,  too  many  acquaintances 
whose  questions  would  be  difficult  to  parry. 

But  on  the  morning  of  the  third  day,  about  eleven 
o'clock,  he  was  called  to  the  telephone.  A  feeling  of 
dread  ran  through  him  and  he  was  conscious  of  a  curious 
sensation  of  weakness  as  he  lifted  the  receiver.  But  the 
voice  that  hailed  him  was  reassuring  and  complacently 
expressive  of  a  neat  piece  of  work  well  done.  The  wife 
of  Monsieur  had  been  traced,  they  had  taken  time  —  oh, 
yes,  but  they  had  followed  Monsieur's  instructions  au 
pied  de  la  lettre  and  had  acted  with  a  discretion  that  was 
above  criticism.  Then  followed  an  address  given 
minutely.  For  a  moment  he  leaned  against  the  side  of 
the  telephone  box  shaking  uncontrollably.  Only  at  this 
moment  did  he  realise  completely  how  great  his  fear 
had  been.  There  had  been  times  when  the  recurring 
thought  of  the  Morgue  and  its  pitiful  occupants  had  been 


THE  SHADOW  OP  THE  EAST  307 

a  foretaste  of  hell.  The  feeling  of  weakness  passed  quickly 
and  he  went  out  to  the  entrance  of  the  hotel  and  leaped 
into  a  taxi  which  had  just  set  down  a  fare. 

He  knew  well  the  locality  toward  which  he  was  driv- 
ing. Years  ago  he  could  almost  have  walked  to  it  blind- 
fold, but  today  time  was  precious.  And  as  he  sat  for- 
ward in  the  jolting  cab,  his  hands  locked  tightly  together, 
it  seemed  to  him  as  if  every  possible  hindrance  had 
combined  to  bar  his  progress.  The  traffic  had  never 
appeared  so  congested,  the  efforts  of  the  agents  on  point 
duty  so  hopelessly  futile.  Omnibuses  and  motors,  unwieldy 
meat  carts  and  fiacres,  inextricably  jammed,  met  them 
at  every  turn,  until  at  last  swinging  round  by  the  corner 
of  the  Louvre  the  streets  became  clearer  and  the  car 
turned  sharply  to  cross  the  river.  As  they  approached 
the  address  the  detective  had  given  him  Craven  was 
conscious  of  no  sensation  of  any  kind.  A  deadly  calm 
seemed  to  have  taken  possession  of  him.  He  had  ceased 
even  to  speculate  on  what  lay  before  him.  The  house 
at  which  they  stopped  at  last  was  typical  of  its  kind; 
in  his  student  days  he  had  rented  a  studio  in  a  precisely 
similar  building,  and  the  concierge  to  whom  he  applied 
might  have  been  the  twin  sister  of  the  voluble  amply 
proportioned  citoyenne  of  long  ago  who  had  kept  a 
maternal  eye  on  his  socks  and  shirts  and  a  soft  spot  in 
her  heart  for  the  bel  Anglais  who  chaffed  her  unmerci- 
fully, but  paid  his  rent  with  commendable  promptitude. 
A  huge  woman,  with  a  shrewd  not  unkindly  face,  she 
sat  in  a  rocking  chair  with  a  diminutive  kitten  on  her 
shoulder  and  a  mass  of  knitting  in  her  lap.  As  she 
listened  to  Craven's  inquiry  she  tossed  the  kitten  into  a 
basket  and  bundled  the  shawl  she  was  making  under 
her  arm,  while  she  rose  ponderously  to  her  feet  and 
favoured  the  stranger  with  a  stare  that  was  frankly  and 
undisguisedly  inquisitive.  A  pair  of  twinkling  eyes 
encased  in  rolls  of  fat  swept  him  from  head  to  foot  in 


308;  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

v 

leisurely  survey,  and  he  felt  that  there  was  no  detail 
about  him  that  escaped  attention,  that  even  the  texture 
of  his  clothing  and  the  very  price  of  the  boots  he  was 
wearing  were  gauged  with  accuracy  and  ease.  She  con- 
descended to  speak  at  last  in  a  voice  that  was  curiously 
soft,  and  warmed  into  something  almost  approaching 
enthusiasm.  Madame  Craven?  but  certainly,  au 
quatrieme.  Monsieur  was  perhaps  a  patron  of  the  arts, 
he  desired  to  buy  a  picture?  It  was  well,  painters  were 
many  but  buyers  were  few.  Madame  was  assuredly  at 
home,  she  was  in  fact  engaged  at  that  moment  with  a 
model.  A  model  —  Sapristi!  —  he  called  himself  such,  but 
for  herself  she  would  have  called  him  un  vrai  apache!  of 
a  countenance,  mon  Dieu!  She  paused  to  wave  her 
hands  in  horror  and  jerk  her  head  toward  the  staircase, 
continuing  her  confidences  in  a  lowered  tone.  The  door 
of  the  studio  was  open,  it  was  wiser  when  such  gentry 
presented  themselves,  and  also  did  she  not  herself  always 
sit  in  the  hall  that  she  might  be  within  call,  one  never 
knew  —  and  Madame  was  an  angel  with  the  heart  of 
a  child.  A  face  to  study  —  and  she  thought  of  nothing 
else.  But  there  were  those  who  thought  for  her,  the 
blessed  innocent.  It  was  doubtless  because  she  was 
English  —  Monsieur  was  also  English,  she  observed  with 
another  shrewd  glance  and  a  wide  smile.  Madame  would 
be  glad  to  see  a  compatriot.  If  Monsieur  would  do 
himself  the  trouble  of  ascending  the  stairs  he  could 
not  mistake  the  door,  it  was  at  the  top,  and,  as  she  had 
said,  it  was  open. 

She  beamed  on  him  graciously  as  with  a  murmur  of 
thanks  Craven  turned  to  mount  the  stone  staircase.  A 
feeling  of  relief  came  to  him  at  the  thought  of  the  warm 
hearted  self-appointed  guardian  sitting  in  kindly  vigi- 
lance in  the  big  armchair  below.  Here,  too,  it  would 
appear,  Gillian  had  made  herself  beloved.  As  he  passed 
quickly  upward  the  unnatural  calm  that  had  come  over 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  309 

him  gave  place  to  a  very  different  feeling.  It  was  brought 
home  to  him  all  at  once  that  what  he  had  longed  and 
prayed  for  was  on  the  point  of  taking  effect.  He  realised 
that  the  ghastly  waiting  time  was  over,  that  in  a  few 
moments  he  would  see  her,  and  his  heart  began  to  throb 
violently.  Every  second  that  still  separated  them  seemed 
an  age  and  he  took  the  last  remaining  flight  two  steps 
at  a  time.  But  he  stopped  abruptly  as  he  reached  the 
level  of  the  landing.  The  open  door  was  within  a  few 
feet  of  him  but  screened  from  where  he  stood. 

It  was  her  voice  that  had  arrested  him,  speaking  with 
an  accent  of  weariness  he  had  never  heard  before  that 
sent  a  sudden  quiver  to  his  lips.  His  fingers  clenched 
on  the  soft  hat  he  held. 

"But  it  does  not  do  at  all,"  she  was  saying,  and  the 
racking  cough  that  accompanied  her  words  struck 
through  Craven's  heart  like  a  knife,  "it  is  the  expression 
that  is  wrong.  If  you  look  like  that  I  can  never  believe 
that  you  are  what  you  say  you  are.  Think  of  some  of 
the  horrible  things  you  have  told  me  —  try  and  imagine 
that  you  are  still  tracking  down  that  brute  who  took 
your  little  Colette  from  you "  A  husky  voice  inter- 
rupted her.  "No  use,  Madame,  when  I  remember  that 
I  can  only  think  of  you  and  the  American  doctor  who 
gave  her  back  to  me,  and  our  happiness. " 

"You  don't  deserve  her,  and  she  hates  the  things 
you  do,"  came  the  quick  retort,  and  the  man  who  had 
been  speaking  laughed. 

"But  not  me,"  he  answered  promptly,  "and  the 
things  I  do  keep  a  roof  over  our  heads, "  he  added  grimly. 
"But,  see,  I  will  try  again  —  does  that  satisfy  Madame?"- 

Craven  moved  forward  as  he  heard  her  eager  assent 
and  her  injunction  to  "hold  that  for  a  few  minutes," 
and  in  the  silence  that  ensued  he  reached  the  door.  For 
a  moment  his  entrance  passed  unobserved. 

The  stark  bareness  of  the  room  was  revealed  to  him 


310  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

in  a  single  comprehensive  glance  and  the  chill  of  it  sent 
a  sudden  feeling  of  anger  surging  through  him.  His 
face  was  drawn  and  his  eyes  almost  menacing  with  pain 
as  they  rested  on  the  slight  figure  bending  forward  in 
unconscious  absorption  over  the  easel  propped  in  the 
middle  of  the  rugless  floor.  Then  his  gaze  travelled 
slowly  beyond  her  to  the  model  who  stood  on  the  little 
dais,  and  he  understood  in  a  flash  the  reason  of  the  old 
concierge's  vigilance  as  he  saw  the  manner  of  man  she 
was  painting.  The  slender  darkly  clad  youth  with  head 
thrust  forward  and  sunk  deep  on  his  shoulders,  with 
close  fitting  peaked  cap  pulled  low  over  his  eyes  shading 
his  pale  sinister  face  was  a  typical  representative  of  the 
class  of  criminal  who  had  come  to  be  known  in  Paris  as 
les  apaches;  no  artist's  model  masquerading  as  one  of 
the  dreaded  assassins,  but  the  genuine  article.  Of  that 
Craven  was  convinced.  The  risk  she  had  taken,  the 
quick  resentment  he  felt  at  the  thought  of  such  a  presence 
near  her  forced  from  him  an  exclamation. 

Artist  and  model  turned  simultaneously.  There  was 
a  moment  of  tense  silence  as  husband  and  wife  stared 
into  each  other's  eyes.  Then  the  palette  and  brushes 
she  was  holding  dropped  with  a  little  chatter  to  the  floor. 

"Barry,"  she  whispered  fearfully,  "Barry ! 

Both  men  sprang  forward,  but  it  was  Craven  who 
caught  her  as  she  fell.  She  lay  like  a  featherweight  in 
his  strong  clasp,  and  as  he  gazed  at  the  delicate  face 
crushed  against  his  breast  a  deadly  fear  was  knocking 
at  his  heart  that  he  had  come  too  late.  Convulsively 
his  arms  tightened  round  the  pitifully  light  little  body 
and  he  spoke  abruptly  to  the  man  who  was  scowling 
beside  him.  "  A  doctor  —  as  quick  as  you  can  —  and  tell 
the  concierge  to  come  up."  Anxiety  roughened  his 
voice  and  he  turned  away  without  waiting  to  see  his 
orders  carried  out.  For  a  second  the  apache  glowered 
at  him  under  narrowing  lids,  his  sullen  face  working 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  311 

strangely,  then  he  jerked  the  black  cap  further  over  his 
eyes  and  slipped  away  with  noiseless  tread. 

With  a  broken  whisper  Craven  caught  his  frail  burden 
closer,  as  though  seeking  by  the  strength  and  warmth 
of  his  own  body  to  animate  the  fragile  limbs  lying  so 
cold  and  lifeless  in  his  arms,  and  he  bent  low  over  the 
pallid  lips  he  craved  and  yet  did  not  dare  to  kiss.  They 
were  not  for  him  to  take,  he  reflected  bitterly,  and  in  her 
unconsciousness  they  were  sacred. 

His  eyes  were  dark  with  misery  as  he  raised  his  head 
and  looked  about  quickly  for  some  couch  on  which  to 
lay  her.  But  the  bare  studio  was  devoid  of  any  such 
luxury,  and  with  his  face  set  rigidly  he  carried  her  across 
the  room  and  pushed  open  a  door  leading  to  an  inner 
sleeping  apartment.  Barer  it  was  and  colder  even  than 
the  studio,  and  its  bleak  poverty  formed  a  horrible  con- 
trast to  the  big  white  bedroom  at  Craven  Towers.  He 
laid  her  on  the  narrow  comfortless  bed  with  a  smothered 
groan  that  seemed  to  tear  his  heart  to  pieces.  And  as 
he  knelt  beside  her  chafing  her  icy  hands  in  helpless 
agony  there  burst  in  on  him  a  tempestuous  fury  who 
raved  and  stormed  and  called  on  heaven  to  witness  the 
iniquity  of  men.  "Bete!  animal!"  she  raged,  "what 
have  you  done  to  her  —  you  and  that  rat-faced  devil!" 
and  she  thrust  her  bulky  figure  between  him  and  the 
bed.  Then  with  a  sudden  change  of  manner,  her  voice 
grown  soft  and  caressing,  she  bent  over  the  fainting  girl 
and  slipped  a  plump  arm  under  her,  crooning  over  her 
and  endeavouring  to  restore  her  to  consciousness.  She 
snapped  an  enquiry  at  Craven  and  he  explained  as  best 
he  could,  and  his  explanation  brought  down  on  him  a 
wealth  of  biting  sarcasm.  The  husband  of  cet  ange  la! 
In  the  name  of  heaven!  was  there  no  limit  to  the 
blundering  stupidity  of  men  —  had  he  no  more  sense  than 
to  present  himself  with  such  unexpectedness,  after  so 
long  an  absence?  Small  wonder  la  pauvre  petite  had 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 


fainted.  What  folly!  And  lashing  him  with  her  tongue 
she  renewed  her  fruitless  efforts.  But  Craven  scarcely 
heeded  her.  His  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  little  white  face 
on  the  pillow,  and  he  was  praying  desperately  that  she 
might  be  spared  to  him,  that  his  punishment  might  not 
take  so  terrible  a  form.  For  the  change  in  her  appalled 
him.  Slight  and  delicate  always,  she  was  now  a  mere 
shadow  of  what  she  had  been.  If  she  died  !  —  he 
clenched  his  teeth  to  keep  silent  —  must  he  be  twice  a 
murderer?  O  Hara  San's  blood  was  on  his  hands,  would 
hers  also  - 

He  turned  quickly  as  a  tall,  loosely  made  man  swung 
into  the  room.  The  newcomer  shot  a  swift  glance  at 
him  and  moved  past  to  the  bedside,  addressing  the  con- 
cierge in  fluent  French  that  was  marked  by  a  pronounced 
American  accent.  He  cut  short  her  eager  communica- 
tion as  he  bent  over  the  bed  and  made  a  rapid 
examination. 

"Light  a  fire  in  the  stove,  bring  all  the  blankets  you 
can  find,  and  make  some  strong  coffee.  I  have  been 
waiting  for  this,  the  marvel  is  it  hasn't  happened 
before,"  he  said  brusquely.  And  as  the  woman  hurried 
away  with  surprising  meekness  to  do  his  bidding  he 
turned  again  to  Craven.  "Friend  of  Mrs.  Craven's?" 
he  asked  with  blunt  directness.  "Pity  her  friends 
haven't  looked  her  up  sooner.  Guess  you  can  wait  in 
the  other  room  until  I'm  through  here  —  that  is  if  you 
are  sufficiently  interested.  It  will  probably  be  a  long 
job  and  the  fewer  people  she  sees  about  her  when  she 
comes  to,  the  better.  " 

The  blood  flamed  into  Craven's  face  and  an  angry 
protest  rose  to  his  lips,  but  his  better  judgment  checked 
it.  It  was  not  the  time  for  explanations  or  to  press  the 
claim  he  had  to  remain  in  the  room.  And  had  he  a  claim 
at  all,  he  wondered  with  a  dull  feeling  of  pain.  "I'll 
wait,"  te  Baid  quietly,  fighting  an  intolerable  jealousy/ 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  313 

as  he  watched  the  doctor's  skilful  hands  busy  about 
her.  Strangers  might  tend  her,  but  the  husband  she 
had  evidently  never  spoken  of,  was  banished  to  an  outer 
room  to  wait  "if  sufficiently  interested."  He  winced 
and  passed  slowly  into  the  studio.  And  yet  he  had 
brought  it  on  himself.  She  could  have  had  little  wish 
to  mention  him  situated  as  she  was,  the  bare  garret 
he  was  pacing  monotonously  was  evidence  in  itself  that 
she  had  determined  to  cut  adrift  from  everything  that 
was  connected  with  the  life  and  the  man  she  had  obvi- 
ously loathed.  His  surroundings  left  no  doubt  on  that 
score.  She  had  plainly  preferred  to  struggle  independ- 
ently for  existence  rather  than  be  beholden  to  him  who 
was  her  natural  protector.  He  recalled  with  an  aching 
heart  the  swift  look  of  fear  that  had  leapt  into  her  eyes 
during  that  long  moment  before  she  had  lost  conscious- 
ness, and  the  memory  of  it  went  with  him,  searing  cru- 
elly, as  he  tramped  up  and  down  in  restless  anxiety 
that  would  not  allow  him  to  keep  still.  To  see  that 
look  in  her  eyes  again  would  be  more  than  he  could 
endure. 

From  time  to  time  the  concierge  passed  through  the 
room  bearing  the  various  necessaries  the  doctor  had 
demanded,  but  her  mouth  was  grimly  shut  and  he  did  not 
ask  for  information  that  she  did  not  seem  inclined  to 
vouchsafe.  She  did  unbend  so  far  at  last  as  to  light  a 
fire  in  the  stove,  but  she  let  it  be  clearly  understood  that 
it  was  not  for  his  benefit.  "It  will  help  to  warm  the 
other  room,  and  it  has  been  empty  long  enough,"  she 
said,  with  a  glance  and  a  shrug  that  were  full  of  mean- 
ing. But  as  she  saw  the  misery  of  his  face  her  manner 
softened  and  she  spoke  confidently  of  the  skill  of  the 
American  doctor,  who  from  motives  of  pure  philanthropy 
had  practised  for  some  years  in  a  quarter  that  offered 
much  experience  but  little  pecuniary  profit. 

Then  she  left  him  to  wait  again  alone. 


314  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

He  could  not  bring  himself  to  look  at  the  canvases 
propped  against  the  bare  walls,  they  were  witnesses  of 
her  toil,  witnesses  perhaps  of  a  failure  that  hurt  him 
even  more  than  it  must  have  hurt  her.  And  to  him  who 
knew  the  spirit-crushing  efforts  of  the  unknown  artist  to 
win  recognition,  her  failure  was  both  natural  and  intel- 
ligible. He  guessed  at  a  pride  that  scorning  patronage 
had  not  sought  assistance  but  had  striven  to  succeed  by 
merit  alone,  only  to  learn  the  bitter  lesson  that  falls  to 
the  lot  of  those  who  fight  against  established  convention. 
She  had  pitted  her  strength  against  a  system  and  the 
system  had  broken  her.  Her  studies  might  be  —  they 
were  —  marked  with  genius,  but  genius  without  advertise- 
ment had  gone  unrecognised  and  unrewarded. 

But  before  the  portrait  of  the  strange  model  he  had 
found  with  her  he  paused  for  a  long  time.  Still  unfin- 
ished it  was  brilliantly  clever.  The  lower  part  of  the 
face  had  evidently  not  satisfied  her,  for  it  was  wiped  out, 
but  the  upper  part  was  completed,  and  Craven  looked  at 
the  deep-set  eyes  of  the  apache  staring  back  at  him  with 
almost  the  fire  of  life  —  melancholy  sinister  eyes  that 
haunted  —  and  wondered  again  what  circumstance  had 
brought  such  a  man  across  her  path.  He  remembered 
the  fragmentary  conversation  he  had  heard,  remem- 
bered too  that  mention  had  been  made  of  the  man  who 
was  even  now  with  her  in  the  adjoining  room,  and  he 
sighed  as  he  realised  how  utterly  ignorant  he  was  of  the 
life  she  had  led  during  his  absence. 

Had  she  meditated  a  complete  severance  from  him, 
formed  ties  that  would  bind  bind  her  irrevocably  to  the  life 
she  had  chosen?  He  turned  from  the  picture  wearily.  It 
was  all  a  tangle.  He  could  only  wait,  and  waiting,  suffer. 

He  went  to  the  window  and  leant  his  arms  unseeingly 
on  the  high  narrow  sill  that  looked  out  over  the  neigh- 
bouring housetops,  straining  to  hear  the  faintest  sound 
from  the  inner  room.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  must 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  315 

have  waited  hours  when  at  last  the  door  opened  and  shut 
quietly  and  the  American  came  leisurely  toward  him. 
He  faced  him  with  swift  unspoken  inquiry.  The  doctor 
nodded,  moving  toward  the  stove.  "She's  all  right 
now,"  he  said  dryly,  "but  I  don't  mind  telling  you  she 
gave  me  the  fright  of  my  life.  I  have  been  wondering 
when  this  was  going  to  happen,  I've  seen  it  coming  for 
a  long  time."  He  paused,  and  looked  at  Craven  frown- 
ingly  while  he  warmed  his  hands. 

"May  I  ask  if  you  are  an  intimate  friend  of  Mrs. 
Craven's  —  if  you  know  her  people?  Can  you  put  me  in 
communication  with  them?  She  is  not  in  a  fit  state  to 
be  alone.  She  should  have  somebody  with  her  —  some- 
body belonging  to  her,  I  mean.  I  gather  there  is  a  hus- 
band somewhere  abroad  —  though  frankly  I  have  always 
doubted  his  existence  —  but  that  is  no  good.  I  want 
somebody  here,  on  the  spot,  now.  Mrs.  Craven  doesn't 
see  the  necessity.  I  do.  I'm  not  trying  to  shunt  respon- 
sibility. I've  shouldered  a  good  deal  in  my  time  and 
I'm  not  shirking  now  —  but  this  is  a  case  that  calls 
for  more  than  a  doctor.  I  should  appreciate  any  assist- 
ance you  could  give  me." 

The  fear  he  had  felt  when  he  held  her  in  his  arms  was 
clutching  anew  at  Craven  and  his  face  grew  grey  under 
the  deep  tan.  "What  is  the  matter  with  her?"  Some- 
thing in  his  voice  made  the  doctor  look  at  him  more 
closely.  "That,  my  dear  sir,"  he  parried,  "is  rather 
a  leading  question."  "I  have  a  right  to  know,"  inter- 
rupted Craven  quickly.  "You  will  pardon  me  if  I  ask 
-what  right?"  was  the  equally  quick  rejoinder. 

The  blood  surged  back  hotly  into  Craven's  face. 

"The  right  of  the  man  whose  existence  you  very  justly 
doubted,"  he  said  heavily.  The  doctor  straightened 
himself  with  a  jerk.  "You  are  Mrs.  Craven's  husband! 
Then  you  will  forgive  me  if  I  say  that  you  have  not 
come  back  any  too  soon.  I  am  glad  for  your  wife's 


316  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

sake  that  the  myth  is  a  reality,"  he  said  gravely. 
Craven  stood  rigidly  still,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  his 
heart  stopped  beating.  "I  know  my  wife  is  delicate, 
that  her  lungs  are  not  strong,  but  what  is  the  cause  of 
this  sudden  —  collapse? "  he  said  slowly,  his  voice  shak- 
ing painfully.  For  a  moment  the  other  hesitated  and 
shrugged  in  evident  embarrassment.  "There  are  a 
variety  of  causes  —  I  find  it  somewhat  difficult  to  say  — 
you  couldn't  know,  of  course " 

Craven  cut  him  short.  "You  needn't  spare  my  feel- 
ings," he  said  hoarsely.  "For  God's  sake  speak 
plainly. 

"  In  a  word  then  —  though  I  hate  to  have  to  say  it  — 
starvation."  The  keen  eyes  fixed  on  him  softened  into 
sudden  compassion  but  Craven  did  not  see  them.  He 
saw  nothing,  for  the  room  was  spinning  madly  round 
him  and  he  staggered  back  against  the  window  catching 
at  the  woodwork  behind  him. 

"Oh,  my  God!"  he  whispered,  and  wiped  the  blind- 
ing moisture  from  his  eyes.  If  it  had  been  possible  for 
her  gentle  nature  to  contemplate  revenge  she  could  have 
planned  no  more  terrible  one  than  this.  But  in  his 
heart  he  knew  that  it  was  not  revenge.  For  a  moment 
he  could  not  speak,  then  with  an  effort  he  mastered  him- 
self. He  could  give  no  explanation  to  this  stranger, 
that  lay  between  him  and  her  alone. 

"There  was  no  need,"  he  said  at  last  dully,  forcing 
the  words  with  difficulty;  "she  misunderstood  —  I  can't 
explain.  Only  tell  me  what  I  can  do  —  anything  that 
will  cure  her.  There  isn't  any  permanent  injury,  is 
there  —  I  haven't  really  come  too  late?"  he  gasped, 
with  an  agony  of  appeal  in  his  voice.  The  American 
shook  his  head.  "You  ran  it  very  fine,"  he  said,  with 
a  quick  smile,  "but  I  guess  you've  come  in  time,  right 
enough.  There  isn't  anything  here  that  money  can't 
cure.  Her  lungs  are  not  over  strong,  her  heart  is  tern- 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  317 

porarily  strained,  and  her  nerves  are  in  tatters.  But  if 
you  can  take  her  to  the  south  —  or  better  still,  Egypt 

?"  he  hesitated  with  a  look  of  enquiry,  and  as 

Craven  nodded,  continued  with  more  assurance,  "Good! 
then  there's  no  reason  why  she  shouldn't  be  a  well 
woman  in  time.  She's  constitutionally  delicate  but 
there's  nothing  organically  wrong.  Take  her  away  as 
soon  as  possible,  feed  her  up  —  and  keep  her  happy. 
That's  all  she  wants.  I'll  look  in  again  this  evening." 
And  with  another  reassuring  smile  and  a  firm  handclasp 
he  was  gone. 

As  his  footsteps  died  away  Craven  turned  slowly 
toward  the  adjoining  room  with  strangely  contending 
emotions.  "...  keep  her  happy."  The  bitter  irony 
of  the  words  bit  into  him  as  he  crossed  to  the  door  and, 
tapping  softly,  went  in. 

She  was  waiting  for  him,  lying  high  on  the  pillows 
that  were  no  whiter  than  her  face,  toying  nervously  with 
the  curling  ends  of  the  thick  plait  of  soft  brown  hair 
that  reached  almost  to  her  waist.  Her  eyes  were  fixed 
on  Him  appealingly,  and  as  he  came  toward  her  her  face 
quivered  suddenly  and  again  he  saw  the  look  of  fear 
that  had  tortured  him  before.  "  Oh,  Barry, "  she  moaned, 
"don't  be  angry  with  me." 

It  was  all  that  he  could  do  to  keep  his  hungry  arms 
from  closing  round  her,  to  keep  back  the  passionate 
torrent  of  love  that  rushed  to  his  lips.  But  he  dared 
not  give  way  to  the  weakness  that  was  tempting  him. 
Controlling  himself  with  an  effort  of  will  he  sat  down  on 
the  edge  of  the  bed  and  covered  her  twitching  fingers 
with  his  lean  muscular  hands. 

"I'm  not  angry,  dear.  God  knows  I've  no  right  to 
be,"  he  said  gently.  "I  just  don't  understand.  I 
never  dreamt  of  anything  like  this.  Can't  you  tell  me  — 
explain  —  help  me  to  understand?" 

She  dragged  her  hands  from  his,  and  covering  her 
face  gave  way  to  bitter  weeping.  Her  tears  crucified 


318  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE   EAST 

him  and  his  heart  was  breaking  as  he  looked  at  her. 
"Gillian,  have  a  little  pity  on  me,"  he  pleaded.  "Do 
you  think  I'm  a  stone  that  I  can  bear  to  see  you  cry?" 

"What  can  I  say?"  she  whispered  sobbingly.  "You 
wouldn't  understand.  You  have  never  understood. 
How  should  you?  You  were  too  generous.  You  gave 
me  your  name,  your  wealth,  you  sacrificed  your  free- 
dom to  save  me  from  a  knowledge  of  the  callousness 
and  cruelty  of  the  world.  You  saw  further  than  I  did. 
You  knew  that  I  would  fail  —  as  I  have  failed.  And 
because  of  that  you  married  me  in  pity.  Did  you  think  I 
would  never  guess?  I  didn't  at  first.  I  was  a  stupid 
ignorant  child,  I  didn't  realise  what  a  marriage  like  ours 
would  mean.  But  when  I  did  —  oh,  so  soon  —  and  when  I 
knew  that  I  could  never  repay  you  —  I  think  I  nearly 
died  with  shame.  When  I  asked  you  to  let  me  come  to 
Paris  it  was  not  to  lead  the  life  you  purposed  for  me  but 
because  my  burden  of  debt  had  grown  intolerable.  I 
thought  that  if  I  worked  here,  paid  my  own  way,  got 
back  my  lost  self-respect,  that  it  would  be  easier  to  bear. 
When  you  took  the  flat  I  tried  to  make  you  understand 
but  you  wouldn't  listen  and  I  couldn't  trouble  you  when 
you  were  going  away.  And  then  later  when  they  told 
me  at  the  convent  what  you  had  done,  when  I  learned 
how  much  greater  was  my  debt  than  I  had  ever  dreamt, 
and  when  I  heard  of  the  money  you  gave  them  —  the 
money  you  still  give  them  every  year  —  the  money  they 
call  the  Gillian  Craven  Fund " 


"They  had  no  right,  I  made  it  a  stipulation 


"They  didn't  realise,  they  thought  because  we  were 
married  that  I  must  surely  know.  I  couldn't  go  on  liv-> 
ing  in  the  flat,  taking  the  allowance  you  heaped  on  me. 
All  you  gave,  —  all  you  did  —  your  generosity  —  I  couldn't 
bear  it !  Oh,  can't  you  see  —  your  money  choked  me ! " 
she  wailed,  with  a  paroxysm  of  tears  that  frightened  him,. 
He  caught  her  hands  again,  holding  them  firmly.  "Your 
money  as  much  as  mine,  Gillian.  I  have  always  tried 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST  319 

to  make  you  realise  it.    What  is  mine  is  yours.    You're 
my  wife " 

"I'm  not,  I'm  not,"  she  sobbed  wildly.  "I'm  only 
a  burden  thrust  on  you." 

A  cry  burst  from  his  lips.  "A  burden,  my  God,  a 
burden!"  he  groaned.  And  suddenly  he  reached  the 
end  of  his  endurance.  With  the  agony  of  death  in  his 
eyes  he  swept  her  into  his  arms,  holding  her  to  him  with 
passionate  strength,  his  lips  buried  in  the  fragrance  of 
her  hair.  "Oh,  my  dear,  my  dear,"  he  murmured 
brokenly,  "I'm  not  fit  to  touch  you,  but  I've  loved  you 
always,  worshipped  you,  longed  for  you  until  the  long- 
ing grew  too  great  to  bear,  and  I  left  you  because  I  knew 
that  if  I  stayed  I  should  not  have  the  strength  to  leave 
you  free.  I  married  you  because  I  loved  you,  because 
even  this  damnable  mockery  of  a  marriage  was  better 
than  losing  you  out  of  my  life  —  I  was  cur  enough  to  keep 
you  when  I  knew  I  might  not  take  you.  And  I've  wanted 
you,  God  knows  how  I've  wanted  you,  all  these  ghastly 
years.  I  want  you  now,  I'd  give  my  hope  of  heaven 
to  have  your  love,  to  hold  you  in  my  arms  as  my  wife, 
to  be  a  husband  to  you  not  only  in  name  —  but  I'm 
not  fit.  You  don't  know  what  I've  done  —  what  I've 
been.  I  had  no  right  to  marry  you,  to  stain  your  purity 
with  my  sin,  to  link  you  with  one  who  is  fouled  as  I  am. 
If  you  knew  you'd  never  look  at  me  again."  With  a 
terrible  sob  he  laid  her  back  on  the  pillows  and  dropped 
on  his  knees  beside  her.  Into  her  tear-wet  eyes  there 
came  suddenly  a  light  that  was  almost  divine,  her  quiver- 
ing face  became  glorious  in  its  pitiful  love.  Trembling, 
she  leant  towards  him,  and  her  slender  hands  went  out 
in  swift  compassion,  drawing  the  bowed  shamed  head 
close  to  her  tender  breast. 

"Tell  me,"  she  whispered.  And  with  her  soft  arms 
round  him  he  told  her,  waiting  in  despair  for  the  moment 
when  she  would  shrink  from  him,  repel  him  with  the 
and  disgust  he  dreaded.  But  she  lay  quite  still 


'  320  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  EAST 

until  he  finished,  though  once  or  twice  she  shuddered  and 
he  felt  the  quickened  beating  of  her  heart.  And  for  long 
after  his  muffled  voice  had  died  away  she  remained 
silent.  Then  her  thin  hand  crept  quiveringly  up  to  his 
hair,  touching  it  shyly,  and  two  great  tears  rolled  down 
her  face.  "Barry,  I've  been  so  lonely" — it  was  the  cry 
of  a  frightened  desolate  child — "if  you  have  no  pity  on 
yourself,  will  you  have  no  pity  on  me?" 

"Gillian!"  he  raised  his  head  sharply,  staring  at  her 
with  desperate  unbelieving  eyes,  "  You  care?  " 

"Care?"  she  gave  a  tremulous  little  sobbing  laugh. 
"How  could  I  help  but  care!  I've  loved  you  since  the 
day  you  came  to  me  in  the  convent  parlour.  You're 
all  I  have,  and  if  you  leave  me  now" —  she  clung  to  him 
suddenly  —  "  Barry,  Barry,  I  can't  bear  any  more.  I 
haven't  any  strength  or  courage  left.  I'm  afraid!  I 
can't  face  the  world  alone  —  it's  cruel  —  pitiless.  I  love 
you,  I  want  you,  I  can't  live  without  you,"  and  with  a 
piteous  sob  she  strained  him  to  her,  hiding  her  face 
against  his  breast,  beseeching  and  distraught.  His  lip* 
were  trembling  as  he  gathered  the  shuddering  little  body 
closely  in  his  amis,  but  still  he  hesitated. 

"Think,  dear,  think,"  he  muttered  hoarsely,  "I'm 
not  fit  to  stay  with  you.  I've  done  that  which  is  un- 
forgivable. " 

"I'm  your  wife,  I've  the  right  to  share  your  burden," 
she  cried  passionately.  "You  didn't  know,  you  couldn't 
know  when  you  did  that  dreadful  thing.  And  if  God 
punishes  you  let  Him  punish  me  too.  But  God  is  love, 
He  knows  how  you  have  suffered,  and  for  those  who 
repent  His  punishment  is  forgiveness. " 

"But  can  you  forgive  —  can  you  bear  to  come  to  me?" 
he  faltered,  still  only  half  believing. 

"I  love  you,"  she  said  simply,  "and  life  without  you 
is  death, "  and  lifting  her  face  to  his  she  gave  him  the  lip* 
he  had  not  dared  to  take. 


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